



Copyright X° 


COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 












✓ 




Our Brother' s Child 

and 

Other Stories. 

Jw 

\ . .A . 


By 

William H. Reynolds 


1 3 

> > ) 

1906 

Mayhew Publishing Company, 
Boston. 



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LIBRARY of CONGRESS 
Two Cooies Received 


JUL 2 1906 



Copyright, 1906 
By 

William H. Reynolds. 




DEDICATION. 


To a faithful wife, and to you, who, out of the fullness 
of your native nobility, have rendered less trying the long 
illness of the author — be you foregathered, intent on good, 
behind those portals which, “not knowing,” none may 
pass, or severally peaceful at the sacred hearth — this book. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE. 


Our Brother’s Child i 

A Quest Rewarded 56 

The Girl from Johnson’s 58 

Resolutions 69 

Inequitable “Justice” 71 

Rule of the Mob 73 

Scattering Roses 75 

Environment 76 

Renascence of the Soul 79 

“The Gentleman” 80 

When Passing Judgment 81 

The Dove of Peace 82 

Present Day Reward for Christian Service . . 95 

Ring Joyful Bells 98 

Gladness . : 99 

The Re- adjustment 100 

Blossoms and Decay 112 

The Misadventure 113 

My Sweetheart 124 

The Test Catholic 125 

By Circumstantial Evidence 126 

In Perpetuity 141 

The Quickening 142 

The Filler on Furnace ‘A’ 149 

No Continuity in Nature 151 


PAGE 


The Better Inheritance 153; 

Sabbath in Steel District 154 

The Crossing of the Vale 155 

Politics 15& 

Love Undefiled 159: 

Comparison 160 

A Prayer 161 

Young Womanhood 162 

Limitation 163 

Life’s Architecture 164 

The Optimist Eternal 165 

From the Tomb 166 

Mr. Jackson’s Night Out * 179 

The Success of “Golden Oil” 187 

The Purposes of God 196 

The Owl’s Invitation 199 

Charity 200 

The Triumph of Right 201 

Completed Days 202- 

Music 203 


PREFATORY NOTE. 


The author of the following work was from childhood 
more conversant with the wresting of reluctant strata deep 
lying in abysmal depths than the more congenial — if 
not interesting — declension of Latin nouns and phrases. 
The most ordinary elementary education was his portion 
of learning, hence the hypercritical will not fail of disap- 
pointment while perusing these pages intent on discovery 
of faults rhetorical and of grammar. The impartial critic, 
weighing the whole in the balance of literary excellence, 
will doubtless find it wanting. But should he, while in- 
tent on his purpose, find here and there golden grains of 
ethic truth among the sands of extended composition, he 
will perhaps accept this in part extenuation. 

The story, “OUR BROTHER’S CHILD,” was not written 
with the purpose in view of outlining a complete movement 
through life; rather to create a situation swift reaching to 
a climax only too true of this gaseous, death-dealing, honey- 
combed region. The story, whatever else it is, is stem, 
since the real hero, instead of 1 ‘living happily ever after,” 
is called hence in a manner typical of they 

Who, sinking swiftly in the iron-barred cage 
See golden sunrise on the purpling hill 
For the last time. Ere evening comes 
The surface trembles, and the blackened forms 
Lie mute, distorted, ’mid the catacombs. 

This, doubtless, will shock the delver after unreality; 
who will, perhaps, never forgive us for this bit of realism. 
In apology: even the writer of fiction must occasionally 
get back to real life, and life, as the author is conversant 
with it, is far from being a flowery bed fit for continual 


repose. He is proud to have shared the dangers and sym- 
pathies of many ‘ ‘Robert Oakleys,” but few ‘ ‘Bennets.” 
The miner, generally speaking, is not graceful, refined; 
but the vital qualities that proclaim the man are his; he 
stands always ready to defend the weak against wrong, 
whether from within or without his circle. In this we 
speak only as regards our knowledge of the fraternity 
comprising American, British and Northwestern European 
miners; of the later influx we know not. “Bennet” was 
an extreme exception, just as ‘ ‘Oakley’s” actions were 
typical of nine-tenths of the young men with whom his lot 
was temporarily cast. Their language would indicate 
otherwise; but their hearts are true. 

An almost complete prostration of physical power early 
removed the writer from among them, leaving the mind 
alone capable, and that only in periods of very short dura- 
tion. Hence to the literati he need hardly convey the in- 
formation that limae labor et mora is to him a veritable fact. 

If you, who will recognize in “ OUR BROTHER’S 
CHILD,” the fundamental principles of your several societies 
shall be brought to a deeper realization of your obligations, 
and constancy to them bound to you by the most solemn 
vows conceived by man, the simple story will not have been 
written in vain. To you who, perhaps, not unkindly, depre- 
cate exclusive beneficence as delineated therein, we have but 
the following to say: Is there on earth such a thing as uni- 
versal charity ? universal brotherhood ? Do not exigencies of 
race, opinion, society, confine to congenial circles, pow- 
erful in greater or lesser degree, all organizations having 
for their foundation the alleviation of suffering and dis- 
tress, the uplifting of ethic life? Are the followers of the 
Divine Humanitarian — the Teacher of all teachers of uni- 
versal brotherhood — exempt from this frailty? None of 
us follow implicitly His teaching and precept, but in the 
several paths we choose to travel each may do his best. 
No man may do more: none need do less. 

Leechburg, Pennsylvania, Wm. H. Reynolds. 

January 21, 1906. 


A PROPHECY 


Wherever men seek to ennoble each individual life 
by inculcating the true principles of manhood in their 
several gatherings, there, it is the belief of the author, this 
story, and much succeeding it, will be read with profit 
and, he hopes, interest. 


FRATERNITY. 


To you, who, in allegory beautiful to the eye and good for 
the mind, have been taught or taught in turn, the story of 
Damon and Pythia, of David and Jonathan, or, in rapt 
attention, listened to the venerable preceptor of a herm- 
itage delineating the basic principles of fidelity, honor, 
and man’s love for man; to you, who, in varied forms have 
learned the same lessons of right and truth, and to that 
greater number, who, faltering sometimes in the fulfilment 
of their aim — failing to follow a precept perhaps at times 
difficult for human nature in its frailty; and to you all, who, 
recognizing to the full, and sensing your obligation to in- 
corporate an abstract motto into concrete life; these lines: 

God placed us midst the great Immensity; 

Deep sensing all we groped for — could not find — 

He heard our cry, cast on the darkening wind, 

Placed hand in hand and led us from the blind, 

The stagnant, broadcast wilds of self-propensity. 

Lent to Duality no stable Plan 

The Borderland swift turning either way: 

Nature, surveyed, showed where Symmetry lay; 

And, lo, there led the hosts who would obey 
A Motto ending thus:* ‘ * * * * the Brotherhood of Man.” 










# 








OUR BROTHER’S CHILD. 


Fidelity. 


It was early morning in a great city. The whistles of 
many mills, each harmonious in itself, but discordant 
as a whole, w T ere blowing lustily as a hospital ambulance 
tore along a far outlying street. Close to a spot where 
the railroad crosses the city line, a group of men were gath- 
ered around a motionless form lying on the embankment. 
Beneath the injured man, deep stained with his blood, 
w T ere their coats, their vests. One, he w T hom in the earlier 
hours had a clean linen shirt, shivered shirtless in the frosty 
wind. Rude bandages were those they made; unskilful 
w T ere the hands that bound them, but kind. 

One bent his head to the breast of the unfortunate, 
whose heart-beats were scarcely perceptible. A common 
watch chain brushed his cheek, and a pendant hanging 
thereto drew the kneeling man’s attention. He rose, and 
his face paled. Placing his hand on a companion’s shoulder 
he led him aside. 

“Jack,” he said, hoarsely, “he’s a brother!” 

The ambulance rattled noisily. The man who had 
knelt beside the injured wayfarer placed a hastily written 
note in the surgeon’s hand. 

“To Tvanhoe’?” he asked, not sure of the writing. 

“To Tvanhoe’, 491 Street,” repeated the rail- 

roader. 

The grim conveyance rattled off; the group boarded the 
waiting train, and a few moments later were vanished in 
the distance. 

Later the note w r as given at the hospital office. It meant 


2 


OUR BROTHER’S CHILD, 


much, was productive of the most assiduous care, the min- 
utest attention, the best food that money could procure, 
should these necessities prove available for the injured 
man. Its wording was brief. It read thus: 

* ‘ Tvanhoe’, 491 Street, 

will bear all expense of this injured brother.” 

‘ ‘John Hallo well, 

N. C .” 

Concise, strong, its commands were obeyed equally with 
those of the millionaire. 

Some time later, a young man, notebook in hand, ac- 
costed a surgeon in the corridor leading to the open grounds 
at the hospital front. ‘ ‘Any identification ?” he asked. 

“We know his name only, and address; ‘G. Roberts, 
18 Nimmon Street,’ ” replied the doctor. 

The young man wrote a moment. “ ‘G. Roberts,’” 
he muttered; ‘ ‘curious coincidence that, Doc.” 

“What?” 

* ‘That fellow hurt on the P. C. C. & St. L. had the same 
name.” 

‘ ‘Which one was that?” 

“The case Anderson fixed up.” 

“So? Names differ sometimes even when initials are 
the same,” responded the surgeon. 

‘ ‘Sure,” nonchalantly replied the young man. Then, 
‘ ‘Do you think he’ll live?” 

“Hardly.” 

This last reply came in a tone indicative of impatience. 
The reporter moved away, thrusting the notebook in his 
pocket as he went. Whistling a then popular tune, his hat 
tilted backwards, a cigar between his teeth he went 
swiftly down the steps to the street. 

From the preparation room the injured man was carried 
to the operating table, where, with dexterity and skill bora 


AND OTHER STORIES. 


3 


of long experience, the surgeons plied their gruesome 
instruments. The quiet-footed angels of mercy flitted 
hither and thither, doing their share in the harsh yet merci- 
ful task. In a short time the vet unconscious body was 
placed in a private chamber. So far as the world at large 
was concerned the incident was over; the acute stage ended, 
the chronic begun. 

Running from Point Bridge, where it joins central Pitts- 
burg to its western environment, is an incline, up whose 
steep way denizens of the heights above the city are car- 
ried. At its base was a row of smoke-begrimed houses, 
occupied, as a rule, only by those unable to dwell in a pleas- 
anter location. I say was, advisedly, since later years, 
bringing to that portion of the city many improvements, 
have also obliterated the unsightly tenements. 

In one of those houses a young girl sat reading an even- 
ing paper. The step-mother, crabbed and impatient 
with the group about her, was at that late hour vigorously 
rubbing over a washtub. A dark-eyed sister, very much 
like the reading one, sat by the window facing the street, 
and looking dejectedly out at the twinkling lights fast in- 
creasing on the opposite side of the Ohio. She was still 
dressed in the frock and apron that had garbed her during 
the day, for but a few minutes previous she had crossed 
the bridge from the factory. It was plain that something 
unordinary weighted the young woman’s mind. One so 
young, so fair, and endowed, as she seemed to be, with 
good health, did not sigh so deeply, or appear downcast 
without a reason. 

She sat thus for several minutes, apparently oblivious 
to the noisy group at her back. She was yet in the same 
position when she who had been reading stepped quickly 
to her side and whispered, as if afraid to mention the name 
aloud: 4 ‘Helen, George’s hurt!” 

The girl at the window paled, and clutched desperately 
at the ledge. She looked at the news item, faintly hoping 


4 


OUR BROTHER’S CHILD, 


her sister mistaken. But it was too true. With a firm- 
ness bom of desperation she placed a shawl over her head 
and left the room. She did not faint; she did not fall into 
hysteria; but with a last hope that an exaggeration or ab- 
solute mistake on part of the newspapers would yet prove 
all to be well, she crossed the bridge. 

Two sisters accompanied her. Together they continued 
far into the city, then at her behest turned to retrace their 
way. For a few minutes they stood watching the human 
whirlpool swallow her up; that whirlpool in which each 
nurses his own sorrow or his own joy; perhaps one here or 
there in a state of apathy encompassing neither spirit, 
but all intent on their own affairs. 

Helen felt a sinking of heart as she neared the great 
building to which the paper said George had been conveyed. 

‘ ‘Can I see him ?” she asked an attendant. 

■ ‘Are you his wife?” inquired the man. 

Helen’s face flushed; her gaze went instantly from the 
attendant’s eyes to a point near his feet. She faltered 
something on which was evidently based her right to see 
him. 

‘ ‘I’ll see,” said the man, and walked away. 

Helen sat silently watching first one and then another 
move in and out of the hospital doors. ‘ ‘What hopes,” 
she thought, ‘ ‘what anguish of heart, what vivid portrayals 
of Life’s sterner phase could a listener hear could those 
bare walls but speak!” Heart-rending past the power of 
pen to portray. Nor would we do so if we could. Better 
that we see the father restored by skilful incision to work 
again for little ones who ill could spare him; of mother’s 
lives prolonged to see the wee brood grow to manhood or 
womanhood ; the fevered body, which otherwise would 
chill and die in the slum, cleaned and cooled and mayhap 
get well, perhaps profiting sufficiently by the affliction to 
eventually become a better man or woman. These are 
the silver linings glinting among much that is dark. 


AND OTHER STORIES. 


5 

Helen was roused from her reverie by the entrance of 
the attendant. 

‘ ‘You may follow me,” he said, quietly. 

Silently she obeyed. Up, up to a seemingly great height 
they were raised, and, leaving the elevator, walked together 
along the upper corridor, They entered gently a little room 
situated on the right side. The nurse at the bedside beck- 
oned Helen to be seated. Lovingly her eyes met those of 
the injured man, but no words were spoken. She had been 
forewarned; he was too weak to speak. Tears, fast-falling, 
wet the young woman’s cheeks as she looked on the form 
that only yesternight had clasped her in its strong embrace ; 
now weaker than a new-born babe’s; at the lips which had 
pressed her own with the vigor and passion of manhood; 
now a ghastly blue and white. For a full minute they sat 
thus, not a sound breaking the stillness of the chamber. 
The sharp eyes of the nurse noted the effect of the meeting 
on her patient. She moved silently to Helen’s side. 

1 ‘You must leave now,” she whispered. 

Helen rose, and sadly turned to go. 

* ‘Will he live ?” she asked tremulously of the woman 
who had accompanied her to the corridor. 

“He was strong; he may,” she replied. 

After reaching home, Helen wrote page after page, each 
blurred and blotched with welling tears. In her blindness 
she groped wildly for a faint hope, but saw none. To her 
perverted perception there appeared but one course to 
pursue, and this precluded the possibility of seeing him 
for some time; perhaps not till he were well. The more 
Helen pondered the more difficult seemed the way before 
her', but the concrete fact remained that life where she was, 
under the circumstances, would grow worse instead of better. 
This was positively, painfully evident; the other was only 
a possibility. 

She sealed the letter and handed it to Jennie. 

‘ ‘Give this to George as soon as he’ gets out,” she said. 


6 


OUR BROTHER’S CHILD, 


Pleading, crying, Jennie clung to her sister’s dress as 
they parted, two hours later. Helen embraced and kissed 
her over and over again, and from far along Penn Avenue, 
when the sidewalk cleared and the tears were for a moment 
wiped away, Jennie saw her disappear amid the jostling, 
cosmopolitan swarms of humanity. 

Valor. 

There was method in Helen’s apparent madness as she 
wended her way to the nearest railroad station. In a 
mining town some miles distant from the city lived an aunt 
and uncle. Their marriage had not been blessed with 
children, hence the girl’s deduction that they would wel- 
come her as they had her sister Sarah some years before. 
But the adverse fate which had dogged her footsteps so 
persistently of late was again in evidence. They had 
moved away. 

Almost the last cent Helen had was gone. The pros- 
pects which had been the cause of bringing her hither were 
hardly more appalling than those confronting her. She 
was friendless, penniless, in a strange place. Dejected, 
tired, homesick, she seated herself on the edge of a plank 
walk skirting the roadway, and gave full vent to that fem- 
inine surcease of all troubles — a good cry. Much of the 
distress had flowed away when from behind her came the 
sound of a heavy footfall. 

Helen turned to see a tall young man, dirty of face, but 
soldierly in bearing, approaching her. Almost involun- 
tarily he stopped, for the recent tumult was still plainly 
evident in the girl’s face. Then, again, one is not the 
stranger to a fellow-traveller during the first hour in a vil- 
lage that one would be at a year’s end in a larger place. 

Helen noted his friendly interest, and inquired for any 
possible place of service. 

‘ ‘I believe Mrs. Sontag needs a girl,” the young man 


AND OTHER STORIES. 


7 


replied. ‘ ‘I’m on my way there now, if you want to see her.” 

Helen brushed at her dress, wiped away a desultory tear, 
and stepping briskly to keep pace with the long strides 
of her companion, was soon at the boarding house. 

In the evening, the men came in from the mine — big, 
coal-covered fellows. Not all were miners. The presence 
of skilled machinists was necessitated in various kinds of 
work underground and above it. Robert Oakley, the young 
fellow who had taken Helen there, was one of them. His 
work consisted of installation and preliminary running of the 
undercutting machines. At the boarding place he was 
universally liked and respected. Favor or sullen enmity 
is allotted the newcomer in an incredibly short time where 
men come constantly in personal contact during and after 
working hours. Each man’s idiom is imitated, his fund 
of learning or lack of it, his physical prowess — judged 
chiefly by the amount of work performed — and the general 
peculiarities of the several personalities become as an open 
book. 

From the wash-room, situated in the basement below the 
dining-room, the men filed in; clean clothes, clean bodies 
from the feet up, newly-combed hair and the agreeable aroma 
of pine-tar soap all lent a feeling of buoyancy and general 
good-fellowship. Each sat in his designated place at the 
table — a long, oval thing capable of seating comfortably 
twenty or thirty men — and without preliminaries discussed 
the steaming food. A few plates only lacked large pieces 
of meat — for the day was Friday, and the Catholic miner, 
swear as he will, is generally more zealous in his religious 
observances than his Protestant brother. But the paucity 
of protein in one form was amply provided for in another. 
Fresh fish and eggs served in abundance made good the 
deficiency. 

Two newcomers were added to the number this evening, 
one of them named Bennet. 

The meal went on apace. The rapidity with which vast 


8 


OUR BROTHER’S CHILD, 


quantities of meat and vegetables disappeared would have 
brought envy to the heart of a dyspeptic millionaire. For 
a while silence except for the continuous rattle of knives 
and forks prevailed. But the first sharp pangs stilled, con- 
versation began, and becoming general, many a hearty 
sally and sequent laugh added gayety to the meal. 

Helen came in turn behind Oakley and Bennet. Each 
held in readiness his plate for another serving. Somehow 
— Helen herself could not have told the precise cause — 
the huge bowl she was carrying fell from her hands, 
dropped on the top of Bennet’s chair, and spilled its greasy 
contents squarely in the centre of his back! To the other 
men the affair was extremely ludicrous. A roar of laughter 
shook the table from end to end, adding not a little to the 
discomfiture of the principals. 

‘ ‘I beg your pardon,” said Helen, stooping to gather the 
broken platter. 

The great burly fellow did not answer. He pushed 
back his chair, and quickly ridded himself of his coat. 
Helen moved towards him with a clean towel. 

“I am very sorry,” she again repeated. ‘ ‘May I help 
you to clean it?” 

In the disposition of seats Bennet had received the chair 
next to Oakley, and he, turning in his seat, sat intently 
watching the scene, while nearly all the other men had re- 
sumed eating. 

Bennet paid no attention to her. Vehemently he threw 
his coat on a chair back, and resumed his seat. Oakley 
turned to him. 

‘ ‘Did you get it off?” he asked, smiling. 

The fellow uttered a foul oath, and, without looking up, 
but so loud that the men on either side could hear, as well 
as Helen, who was standing near Oakley, ended his impre- 
cation with an implied desire. 

The man on Bennet’s left, laughed; Oakley turned white 
as a sheet. Such words, although used frequently in his 


AND OTHER STORIES. 


9 


hearing while at work, had altogether different effect on 
his mind in this case. 

The meal ended in silence, as far as Oakley and Bennet 
were concerned. While the women gathered the plates 
the men generally grouped about a huge tree whose limbs 
overhung the dining-room yard. Some squatted for a 
game of seven-up. Others picked out the evening papers 
from the heap of mail just deposited on the grass by one of 
their number who had been to the village. A few of the 
older men sat on the stoop, plucking straws from a broom 
with which to cleanse the rank surplus of their pipes. 

Oakley was not there. Immediately after supper he 
had gone to the kitchen. Helen and Mrs. Son tag were 
washing dishes when he entered, the distress of her mind 
plainly evident on the younger woman’s face. 

The boarding mistress turned as she heard his steps be- 
hind her. Helen changed her position to partly hide her 
face. Before Oakley had time to make known his mission 
the elder woman spoke. 

‘ ‘Dis poor girl vas sdrange, Meester Oakley; she pe 
homesick, maype.” 

Helen neither affirmed nor denied her surmisings. Home 
doubtless was a factor in her sorrow, but a small one. 
Oakley tipped his hat as he approached her. 

“May I speak to you a moment, Miss ”. He 

stammered, and did not finish the question. 

Helen laid the dish from her hands and wiped them with 
a towel. Unconsciously brushing back her hair, she fol- 
lowed him to the door. 

‘ ‘Did you — did you — er — ,” Oakley faltered, half ashamed 
to broach such a subject. Gathering fortitude he blurted 
suddenly: “I suppose you heard what Bennet said?” 

Helen’s face colored deeply. “Yes, I heard, but—” 

Oakley surmised her meaning. 

‘ ‘There’ll be no trouble about it, Miss — ” 

‘ ‘Furness,” she added, and a look of concealment crossed 


IO 


OUR BROTHER’S CHILD, 


her face. It was so subtle, however, that the young man 
did not remark it, or if he did was so engrossed with the 
important, and to him, portentous, subject, that he failed 
to give it any consideration. 

‘ ‘Miss Furness,” he echoed under his breath, as he turned 
to leave her; ‘ ‘not for you.” 

Bennet was passing nearby as Oakley stepped down the 
path leading to the larger yard. 

‘ ‘Ho!” the latter called, ‘ ‘I want to see you a minute.” 

Bennet stopped. His burly form loomed dark against 
the fading light. His face took on a belligerent expres- 
sion, as if intuitively his mind scented [trouble. If 
this were so, however, his bearing showed no sign of fear. 
It was evident that Oakley had a hard customer to deal 
with. The men stood within two feet of each other. 

‘ ‘That girl,” started Oakley, ‘ ‘is badly cut up over wdiat 
you said to her.” 

‘ ‘What the h — 1 do I care,” retorted Bennet. 

Oakley tried vainly to frame words that would induce the 
man to retract and apologize for his utterance; but his 
tongue was utterly at variance with his desire. Several 
times he started, stammered something, almost inaudibly, 
then stopped. His brow grew wet, and as he wiped 
away the perspiration Bennet broke into a leering grin. 
The smoldering fire leaped instantly into flame. 

‘ ‘She deserved all she got said to her,” continued Bennet, 
abruptly facing Oakley as if to question the latter’s right 
to interfere, ‘ ‘the clumsy b !” 

Oakley stared for an instant strangely; his body trembled 
as with the ague. The air around both men was still and 
quiet, broken only by the subdued hum of voices coming 
from the other side of the house. From a lane leading to 
the pit shaft came the plaintive notes of harmonica reeds 
trilling sweetly ‘ ‘My Old Kentucky Home.” Strange 
the contrast in so short a space. The boarding house chore- 
boy lightening his labor by crude, yet harmonious strain. 


AND OTHER STORIES. 


II 


Within the house peace; without, men in all manner of 
relaxation restful after a strenuous day. Within arm’s 
length two human giants glaring at each other, the pre- 
lude of combat glinting from eyes sharp as a tiger’s, mus- 
cles as rigid as their stare was tense. 

Oakley moved a step quickly, his clenched hands shot up, 
and, almost before the last foulness had left the other’s 
mouth, Bennet received a stunning blow on the face. For 
a moment he staggered, but an instant later regained his 
equilibrium and composure sufficient to call Oakley a vile 
epithet. This he spat out with a mouthful of blood. 

In an instant the men were locked in deadly embrace. 
Over and over they rolled, first one and then the other gain- 
ing a slight advantage. Cards, papers, pipes, were all 
forgotten as the certain noise of human frenzy reached the 
miners’ ears. Some — the older men — would have parted 
the combatants, but the most intrepid among the crowd 
seemed not over- anxious for the job. To the younger men 
the affair was blissful. Their young blood stirred at the 
sight. Anything they could do to urge the fight to a finish 
was not left undone; cheering Oakley, then Bennet, accord- 
ingly as either gained a slight ascendency. 

Fully fifteen minutes the combatants surged forth and 
back, now up, now down, blood streaming alike from both. 
Of the two Bennet seemed the stronger, but was handi- 
capped in agility. 

By a clever hold Oakley threw the other heavily to the 
ground, and, as he fell, fell upon him. Bennet’s face 
turned livid, his eyes rolled, his muscles convulsed. 

“He’s killed!” exclaimed several in unison. 

One of the men brought water, but another was quicker 
with the miner’s panacea, of which Bennet was urged to 
drink nearly half a pint. In a short time he raised himself 
to a sitting posture, and gazed in a dazed and sheepish 
manner at the crowd. Oakley stood at a distance, wiping 


12 


OUR BROTHER’S CHILD : 


away the blood from his face. Bennet rose slowly to his 
feet, and walked over to where he stood. 

“Shake, pard,” he said, quietly; ‘ ‘you’re the first feller 
to put me down and out.” 

Oakley took the proffered hand and shook it heartily. 
He was glad that matters were no worse; that Bennet had 
come out as he had done himself: apparently uninjured. 

The stir created by the incident soon subsided; ‘ ‘scraps” 
were not infrequent around the mine. The men, gener- 
ally, resumed their play; Oakley went to his room to 
straighten up; Bennet went to the kitchen. 

‘ ‘Dond you pe makin’ more drubble,” said Mrs. Sontag, 
as he strode towards Helen. The latter turned pale, but 
the elder woman moved quickly, frying pan in hand, be- 
tween her and the cause of her discomfiture. But as re- 
garded the man’s intentions the women were mistaken. 

Bennet fumbled clumsily for his hat. ‘ ‘I’m sorry, Miss, 
fer what I said in the dinin’ room; I wanter ’pologize.” 

The color came back to Helen’s face, and Mrs. Sontag 
moved silently over to the washstand. Helen was trem- 
bling yet when she spoke. 

“Thank you,” she said, kindly; “you were badly provoked. 
I’m awfully sorry it happened.” Helen held out her hand, 
and Bennet took it in his coal-scarred and calloused own. 

‘ ‘I hope we shall always be friends,” concluded the girl, 
smiling. 

“I’m sure we shall,” replied Bennet as he turned away. 

As far as Oakley and Helen were concerned the incident 
was apparently forgotten. Neither referred to it in the 
weeks following. Life in Sontag’s boarding house went on 
in its usual way. New lodgers came and old ones went 
away to more congenial workings, real or fancied. As is 
the way of miners some made a change at the end of a few 


AND OTHER STORIES. 


i3 


months, regardless of conditions present or possible. Sev- 
eral of the mechanics went back to the distant state they 
had come from; Oakley, however, had had his stay length- 
ened considerably over the originally allotted time. To the 
most casual observer the cause was plain: he loved Helen. 

It lies within the province of a boarding-house girl to do 
much for a favored one. This, where there are many young 
men and one young woman is sometimes productive of ill- 
feeling. This case, however, was a pleasant exception. 
Bob had clean towels oftener than any other whose duty 
called him amid the dirt and grease; the choice portions of 
meat were carried near his end of the table — accidentally, 
perhaps, but frequently — and trifles never before known 
to do such unseemly tricks crept between the bread in his 
dinner pail. Helen’s natural modesty precluded any 
demonstration of gratitude in more open manner. And, 
even had this been possible, visions of one she loved lying 
weak and injured in a distant hospital would have had a 
determining effect. 

Since the trouble with Bennet, Oakley had tried several 
tim^s to frame an excuse to get Helen away from the house. 
She was affable when they chanced to meet, but the conver- 
sation was always of a general nature. But every word 
she uttered, spite of the frequent smiles, vibrated with a 
melancholic sadness. Oakley was a youth of quick percep- 
tion, and this deep-lying, and to him unaccountable, sor- 
row, grieved him, since he couldn’t understand why one so 
young should seem at times so sad. Helen, sometimes, 
would cast aside depression. But whelming sternness, 
surprised and routed for the instant, would return renewed; 
exuberance of youthful spirit would vanish from her face. 

It was Sunday. From a point of vantage among the thick 
maples clustered back of the house Oakley caught a glimpse 
of Helen through an uncovered window. She had been a 
frequent attendant at church, when at home, and from Mrs. 
Son tag had inquired the way to the local house of worship. 


i 4 OUR BROTHER’S CHILD, 

Her work completed she determined to attend the evening 
service. 

Oakley had come from a walk to a neighboring mine 
where some new cutters were being installed; a process 
intensely interesting to him. As he turned the bend in 
the sulphur-covered road the unsual vision in the window 
drew his attention. The interest at the new mine was paled 
to insignificance. 

A gentle wind, tinged slightly with the coming frost, 
wafted a sweet sound from distant bells. The day was 
declining; the only nearby sound breaking the almost virgin 
stillness came in a purr-like hum from the huge ventilator 
whirling above the air shaft. Occasionally a clatter of 
hoofs and wagon wheels on the dusty streak of yellow skirt- 
ing the wooded edge told of a farmer’s family procrasti- 
nating too long to finish the intervening distance to the house 
of worship at a seemly gait. The last pealing sound died 
away. 

Oakley walked forth and back along the path he knew 
Helen would take to church. The vision in the window 
still continued — unknowingly — to play with his heart 
strings. He sat down at length to watch it. With the ag- 
gravating slowness common to womankind, when prepar- 
ing for any particular place, Helen adjusted first this 
ribbon, then that, perhaps a moment later changing it to a 
location apparently more favorable or becoming. Event- 
ually, however, each several bow, each vari-colored ribbon, 
clung to its proper place, and the young woman tripped 
down the stairs and along the path Oakley had taken. 

“Oh!” she exclaimed, unfeignedly surprised as she came 
abruptly upon him. 

Oakley advanced a step towards her. ‘ ‘May I accom- 
pany you to church?” he asked, smiling. 

Helen caught her skirt, and gracefully lifted it to avoid 
some brambles lying across the path. ‘ ‘Why — thank you, 
it is light, and I know the way.” 


AND OTHER STORIES. 15 

He caught her arm authoritatively, and she tried to dis- 
place it. 

‘ ‘It will be dark when you return,” he said. 

They walked slowly over the intervening distance, and 
reached church a few minutes late. At the close of service 
they returned the same way. 

The moon had come out, making the night beautiful. 
On the tree sides facing its light it shimmered silvery, 
transforming the sombre aspect of the dense foliage, and 
making even more beautiful the unusually fair features of 
Helen. 

By the path-side were many Fall flowers, showing plainly 
in the moonlight. Oakley picked several as he walked 
in the grass, that Helen’s feet might remain dry on the foot- 
wide bareness. With a stem of timothy he entwined them 
and gave to her. 

‘ ‘I love flowers,” she said, placing them in a buttonhole 
on her bosom, inbreathing deeply as she bent of their frag- 
rance. 

1 ‘So do I; but of all I ever saw I like these best,” replied 
Oakley, placing his hand near them. 

Helen pushed it vigorously away. 

They came opposite a miner’s cottage, standing well 
back from the path. In the semi-darkness it seemed incon- 
gruous. But the builder had proved wise. The regular 
company houses were in a cramped position bordered by 
two woods. Here garden-land was plentiful, of which fact 
he had embraced opportunity. Part of the ground by which 
Helen and Oakley stood, was set apart for flowers. She 
turned to him and asked the name of its owner. 

“I don’t know; but he has a fine place. See here,” 
Oakley exclaimed, plucking from a cluster topping the low 
fence a full blown chrysanthemum, ‘ ‘do you know what 
this means?” 

Helen confessed ignorance. “We have always lived in 
the town,” she said. 


i6 


OUR BROTHER’S CHILD, 


‘ ‘At home,” Oakley continued, ‘ ‘we had fine flowers. 
I used to spend lots of evenings among them after coming 
from the shop.” 

They were again in the stretch of woods where he had 
waited for her. The lights in the boarding house, which 
could be seen on the farther side, were nearly all out. They 
had lingered long, much longer than necessary for youthful 
steps to cover the distance traversed, and much against 
Helen’s will. Several times she had gone forward, leaving 
Oakley still walking slowly, but becoming timorous each 
several time had waited his coming, choosing his aggravat- 
ing dalliance rather than the possessive fear of Night. * 

‘ ‘Mother taught me the meaning of flowers,” continued 
Oakley; ‘ ‘this seems to be nearly black,” holding the 
petals close to his face. 

Helen bent to the flower. ‘ ‘But colors look different in 
the night,” she said. 

‘ ‘Yes, that’s so,” replied Oakley. ‘ ‘This black would 
be red in the day — dark red.” Then quickly, ‘ ‘That means 
— means something I am afraid to say.” 

Helen turned questioningly. 

Oakley placed the overcoat he had carried over his arm 
across her shoulders, but she threw it off and moved farther 
from him. 


* The hypercritical will perhaps advance the suggestion that 
Helen’s conduct in allowing Oakley to accompany her to church was 
not becoming. This we do not care to discuss; stating the fact only 
as it occurred, with the knowledge that humanum est errare; Helen 
was of the species, and young. 

In extenuation, we will say, however, that the ethics of higher (?) 
society do not obtain in mining communities. Not less virtuous 
however, are these women of the mines; if there be a decision impar- 
tial to both classes, the present writer labors under the firm belief 
that the class among which Helen lived will receive the favor; the ex- 
igencies of locality and state necessitate less adamant in the visible 
social fabric, and more in that portion invisible to the interested 
observer. 


W. H. R. 


AND OTHER STORIES. 17 

He caught it, and for a few moments they walked in 
silence. 

“Not so much afraid to say it, either,” Oakley mur- 
mured almost inaudibly; 4 'but what the answer might—” 

He stopped as if undecided whether to say more on the 
subject. Helen took the bouquet from her bosom and added 
to it the red November flower. 

‘ 'You have not told me the meaning of it,” she said, 
bending her face as she replaced it, the chrysanthemum 
in the center. 

'It means, Helen, that ‘I love you,’ ” he replied decisively. 

The girl burst into tears. 

‘ ‘Mr. Oakley,” she stammered, ' ‘I — I — ” 

Oakley started to put his arm around Helen’s waist, but 
she gently repulsed him. ' 'Don’t,” she commenced again. 

‘ ‘I ought not to let you come with me; I’m — I’m a — ” 

She stopped abruptly, and felt the trembling hand of 
her companion rest on her sleeve. The affair with Bennet 
had not upset him nearly as bad as this. Oakley could 
have fought half a dozen men with incomparably less dis- 
tress than he suffered as he heard Helen’s disjointed sen- 
tences, and saw the effect of his own. The latter was worry- 
ing him the more. He failed utterly to comprehend any 
connected meaning from her words, and, in fact, she did 
not mean that he should. The possibility of open confes- 
sion was precluded, just then. 

‘ ‘Why, Helen,” continued Oakley, ‘ ‘what’s the meaning 
of this?” 

Again he attempted to encircle her with his arm, and again 
she pushed it away. 

‘ 'Have I done anything to offend you?” he asked her. 

Helen made no reply. 

For awhile they stood in silence. Afar an owl hooted 
his weird call; his night-seeing eyes searched for an unwary 
cottontail or sneaking rodent. The dull chug, chug, of 
the ventilator at the shaft cast a dull echo in the wood 


i8 


OUR BROTHER’S CHILD, 


behind them. In the distance a slow-puffiing decapod 
shrieked a loud warning on the still night air fast turning 
to frost. The hoarse grindings of the train wheels could be 
heard plainly when weighting ore or sable diamonds threw 
sparks of fire from the out-rails of innumerable curves. 
No sound was in the immediate vicinity except the sub- 
dued sighs of Helen, still standing at Oakley’s side. 

‘ ‘Helen,” he faltered, ‘ ‘won’t you make plain what you 
mean ?” 

‘ ‘I can’t, at present,” she answered, rising to go into the 
house. 

At the door they parted, she to go to her room, Oakley 
to his. 

‘ ‘May I kiss you ?” he asked, placing his hand on her arm. 

Helen pushed him away. “No, you must not!” she ex- 
claimed, and without further explanation left him. 

On the Monday following the incidents previously re- 
lated, Helen sat in a room adjoining the kitchen. Eight 
hours before the last miner had removed his pail from the 
bench and betaken himself to the shaft. From now until 
supper’s preparation her time was her own. By Helen’s 
side was a square table on which she was writing, to Roberts, 
in care of Mercy Hospital, and to Jennie. The latter was 
an added admonishment relative to the letter in her care, 
and an intimation that the ensuing week Helen would pay 
a visit, Mrs. Sontag willing, to Pittsburg, including in her 
itinerary the hospital and her former home. 

In its folds she placed some coin, keeping only sufficient 
to satisfy her few simple needs until the next wage became 
due. She folded and sealed both letters to await evening, 
when one of the men, perchance going that way, would 
carry them to the postoffice. 

Later Helen resumed her labors in the kitchen. Several 
times during the afternoon the kind, motherly woman with 
whom she worked inquired the cause of evident distress. 


AND OTHER STORIES. 


i9 


She had, moreover, cast sly glances which caused a blush 
to cover the younger woman’s face, and a sudden adjust- 
ment of the wrapper covering her person. 

But feminine surmisings scorch the female mind. They 
must know. Since the first mother in Eden set the example 
her daughters, famous, rich, obscure, or poor, have rarely 
made exception. Before supper Mrs. Sontag had ceased 
surmising; she knew. To her Helen confessed the story 
none but herself and he lying in the hospital knew ; and the 
elder woman’s face beamed smilingly as she heard the truth: 
she had anticipated other things. She bade the girl cease 
her troubling, the baby should be her child and theirs, so 
long as the father remained unable to care for it and 
Helen. 

A week passed. Several times Oakley attempted to gain 
an interview with Helen, but she studiously avoided him. 

It was Saturday afternoon. The week-end holiday 
had brought the miners out earlier than usual. Nearly all 
were busily engaged shaving, shining shoes, or tidying 
clothes preparatory to an evening in the nearby town. 

Helen, waiting them to vacate their rooms, sat for a few 
minutes’ rest in one she had just completed cleaning. On a 
chair, where she had thrown it while sweeping, lay a city 
paper. She picked it up to read until the men in the room 
adjoining should be gone. The usual fires, murders, ac- 
cidents, and politics, which every day occupy so much space 
in the chronicle of human events, she glanced rapidly over. 
Listlessly she turned to a central page. Among its chief 
features were pattern plates and other things pertaining to 
the world of women. 

During the stress of newspaper making, many small 
items really belonging to the news columns are crowded out. 
Others are squeezed in quarter-inch spaces without even 
the dignity of headlines, rather than the smallest bit of 
“news” shall be printed in a contemporary journal and 
be missing in their own. 


20 


OUR BROTHER’S CHILD, 


Helen glanced upward at the date line: ‘ ‘ The Pittsburg 
Post at the date: November 16, i8 — 

It is part of the wisdom of God that universal sorrow 
shall not prevail in but very few instances. Each must 
bear his own sorrow and his own joy alone. Two-line par- 
agraphs that to your body bring no tremor, to your mind 
no anguish, and from your eyes scarce receive a passing 
glance, wring tears of blood, metaphorically speaking, 
from someone vitally interested. 

It was just such a paragraph that caught Helen’s eye, as 
it lay, nearly hidden, among larger articles. It read: 

“ G. Roberts died yesterday at Mercy 
Hospital, from injuries received on 
October, 

Helen threw down the paper, and, with a convulsive 
clutch at her heart, fell heavily to the floor. 

“What the h — 1 was that ?” asked rough, but kind, Tim 
Doogan, as he dropped a collar button which in the preced- 
ing fifteen minutes had been the cause of more‘ ‘cuss words” 
than it had cost pennies to buy. 

1 ‘The gurrl shiftin’ furthiture, I’ll warrent yez,” ven- 
tured his roommate. 

‘ ‘Faith, un it didna sound so much like furthiture as 
some wan failin’,” replied Tim, as he grappled with the 
button, again. 

Tim’s mate turned. 

‘ ‘P’raps yez had betther see wat’s wrung, Tim, the whiles 
Oi gets me shews tied.” 

Tim stepped from the room into the corridor, but could 
see no one. 

“Meester Duugan!” a voice sounded from the stairs’ 
bottom. 

‘ ‘ Yis, mum 1” 

‘ ‘Pe Helen dere ?” 


AND OTHER STORIES. 


21 


Tim moved a few paces to the door of the adjoining room. 

‘ ‘Oi’ll see in a momint, mum!” he shouted. 

‘ ‘Heleen!” he called, at the door, ‘ ‘Meestris Suntag wants 
yez.” 

1 ‘Heleen” did not answer. 

Doogan stepped closer and pushed open the door. 

Helen lay in the room center, her arms outstretched in 
front of her. 

‘ ‘Slaapin’,” said Tim. 

‘ ‘Heleen, ye meestris wants yez,” said he again, loudly. 

The girl did not stir. 

‘ ‘Bedad but she’s a sound slaaper, and in the daytime, 
tew.” 

Gently Doogan shook her by the shoulder, and in that 
instant knew by the color of her face something was wrong. 

“Come quick, Meestris Suntag!” he called; “the gurrl’s 
in a fit, or summat!” 

The portly German clambered, puffiing, and slightly 
ill tempered, to the landing. 

‘ ‘Where she pe?” she inquired of Doogan. 

‘ ‘Here,” he replied, as he led the way into the room. 

A glance sufficed to convey to Mrs. Sontag what ailed 
Helen, and what was needed to relieve her. 

‘ ‘Run vor some vater, quick, Duugan!” 

And Doogan ran; the ill-starred collar button irretriev- 
ably losing itself in his flight. 

In a few minutes Helen came to herself. The men were 
in their own room, having been told very authoritatively 
by Mrs. Sontag that their services were not needed. 

The boarding mistress helped her to make ready her own 
room. 

‘ ‘Dond vorry, Helen,” she whispered, as she turned to go 
to the dining room. 

‘Vere’s dot poy?” she called. Then, louder, “Joccup! 
Joccup!” 

‘ ‘Joccup” came. 


22 


OUR BROTHER’S CHILD, 


Mrs. Sontag bent to the boy. 

1 ‘Run vor der Doctor Myers, quick, Joccup; und dell him 
der gom quick to Meestres Sontag.” 

‘ ‘Joccup” dropped his bucket, the contents spilling in 
promiscuous heaps on the floor. Usually this would have 
brought a resounding smack, or, at least, a hearty ‘ ‘dutch” 
scolding. 

“Be you sick, Mrs. Sontag?” inquired the boy, as he 
turned to go. 

“Neffer you mintd!” she exclaimed, her big hands out- 
stretched to shake him. 

But ‘ ‘Joccup” was nimble. In a bound he jumped from 
the doorway to the ground, a distance of nearly six feet; 
for the rear of the house gripped the hillside, the front on 
piles. 

“Gee! she’s not so sick, either!” exclaimed the boy, 
as he ‘ ‘made tracks” for Dr. Myer’s. ‘ ‘But there’ll be 
two patients, if I don’t get him in a hurry, an’ I’ll be one 
of ’em.” 

Jake climbed a worm fence, and was halfway across a 
field when he heard a lusty voice: “Run! Joccup, run!!” 
the whole a harsh crescendo of urgency. 

It had effect on Jake; he hastened appreciably, and so- 
liloquized as he ran: ‘ ‘Golly, that’s not ser bad fer a dyin’ 
Dutchman; if she kin do that well at that distance she’ll 
be most alive when I come back.” 

His prediction was verified. Mrs. Sontag bustled hither 
and thither, adding a feeling of mirth to all about her. An 
hour passed before the doctor arrived. 

‘ ‘Premature, but the child will live,” he said. Then to 
Mrs. Sontag: ‘ ‘What has scared this young woman?” 

She confessed ignorance. The physician took from a 
vial a number of morphia tablets, with the injunction that 
they be given and the patient kept absolutely quiet. 

The mother-love of the portly nurse, so long dormant 
for want of subjects on which to lavish it, found full vent. 


AND OTHER STORIES. 


2 3 


Helen and her baby were as if sent to satisfy a desire natural 
in every woman. That she might better care for Helen, 
she procured the services of two girls of the neighborhood. 
A mother could not have been more attentive or kind. 
Under her homely but very successful method of caring for 
the newly -born little Tressy was brought out of the lethargy 
of premature birth. In a few days she became a real bright- 
eyed baby, cooing or crying according as her mood. 

Ten days passed slowly. Helen was sitting up for the 
first time since her confinement. Mrs. Sontag had brought 
from the parlor a comfortable reclining chair. Helen lay 
in a recumbent position, her face pale but richer by the 
deeper beauty of maternity. The first snowflakes of early 
Winter were falling, shutting from view the towering head- 
frames above the shaft. A bright coal fire added cheer to 
what would otherwise have been rather dull environment. 
Tressy was awake, and had just been taken to her mother’s 
arms from the improvised cradle standing at the bedside. 
A timid knock came on the door. 

‘ ‘Come in,” said Helen. 

The door swung open and Oakley entered the room. 
The paleness of the young mother’s face mingled with crim- 
son; she held tightly to her breast, with a pardonable feel- 
ing of maternal pride, the bundled baby. 

Oakley came nearer, somewhat diffident at his own bold- 
ness. “Does — does my coming make you feel ill?” he 
stammered. 

‘ ‘Oh, no,” Helen replied, cheerily; ‘ ‘sit down.” 

The young man took a chair. ‘ ‘I asked Mrs. Sontag if 
she’d care, and she said ‘no, if you didn’t’.” Helen smiled. 
Oakley went on, bashfully twirling his hat, as he spoke: 

‘ ‘I wanted to see — to see the baby a week ago,” he blurted, 
meaning, of course, the baby’s mother, ‘ ‘but missis wouldn’t 
let me.” 

‘ ‘Mrs. Sontag has been very good to me— a real mother,” 
Helen sighed, the latter an unconscious expression of regret, 


24 


OUR BROTHER’S CHILD, 


doubtless, for lack of that essential of complete happiness 
in the home she had left. 

1 ‘Yes, I — that is — er — Mrs. Sontag has been very good,” 
confusedly acknowledged Oakley. Involuntary egotism 
came near bringing to light the night trips to the village, 
after hearing from Mrs. Sontag the story Helen would not 
tell herself. Inborn manliness instantly asserted itself, 
and Oakley’s gaze shifted from the face of the mother to 
the child. Helen had wondered, and was still unenlight- 
ened regarding the identity of a young man who had calle I 
surreptitiously at drug store and doctor’s with ample pay- 
ment for services rendered, and to all inquiries had replied 
simply: ‘ ‘She is a brother’s wife.” 

‘ ‘Can I see the baby?” he asked, almost timidly. 

Helen watched him closely, as he handled the fluffy 
bundle, afraid that he, in his giant clumsiness, would drop 
it. 

‘ ‘Helen,” he started, placing the baby carefully in her 
lap, ‘ ‘Helen — ” then quickly correcting himself — ‘ ‘Mrs. 
Roberts, I beg your pardon for what I said.” 

Helen’s face reddened, but she made no answer. 

‘ ‘Did you know that — that your husband — ” 

‘ ‘No,” Helen interposed, ‘ ‘not then,” tears starting to 
her eyes. 

Oakley drew his chair closer. A small enameled pin, 
surmounted by an eagle, drew his attention. Helen had 
used it, perhaps, in lieu of another, or mayhap from choice. 
Its fastening, hid beneath the mystic signs, held together 
the edges of a cashmere shawl thrown over her shoulders. 
Helen noted his gaze. She unhooked it and held it face 
upward before her eyes, brimming now with tears. 

‘ ‘It was his,” she faltered. 

Oakley’s attention went instantly from the room to the 
snow-covered ground without. Behind him the young 
mother’s eyes dripped tears of exceeding grief; for theiis 
had been great love. Circumstances over which neither 


25 


AND OTHERTSTORIES. 

had control had made politic a secret union, and a fate 
more cruel still had wrenched them apart. Both had 
willed, earnestly, that the fruit of their love should see light 
in their own home. Thus it came, as it so often does among 
the poor, that maternity preceded, since it waits not on cir- 
cumstances social, industrial or otherwise, the home making. 

Oakley turned and Helen was still crying, silently; the 
emblem yet reposing in her fingers. It was palpably evi- 
dent to the young man’s mind that one whose love was so 
intense as Helen’s could bear no division. To the father 
of her child it belonged, and should remain so. But it 
sent a pang through his heart. He loved her, his love mod- 
ified to a certain extent by later events, it is true, but not 
extinguished. He took from her unresisting fingers the 
insignia and held it close to his eyes. 

* ‘You will let me keep this?” he murmured. 

Helen neither assented nor denied; her mind seemed 
dazed to an appreciable extent. Oakley arose, sadness 
exhibited in his countenance. He took from his finger a 
heavy gold ring, having deep in its surface the same signs 
that lay beneath the enamel of Helen’s pin. 

‘ ‘Take this, and this,” he said, earnestly, handing her 
the ring and a small package. ‘ ‘Don’t open this till I’m 
gone.” 

He stooped and lifted the child from her lap. 

‘ ‘The ring will remind you of a passion that was unholy, 
but I didn’t know, I didn’t know you were married, Helen, 
and a brother’s wife, and this his child.” 

Oakley was strong, but he trembled visibly as he re- 
placed, after kissing it, the little child. It- was plain he 
would have said more, but emotion overcame him: tears 
came to his eyes, whether from sense of supposed wrong, 
or because of the parting, we cannot say. But without 
shaking hands, or even uttering the formal words of leave- 
taking, he turned to the door and was gone. 

The double loss — the companionship, and the knowledge 


26 


OUR BROTHER’S CHILD, 


that she was assured by his presence of a friend — overcame 
all thought of other things. The package remained un- 
opened while Helen wept. 

********* 

There is a proverb to the effect that Contempt stalks 
closely on the heels of Familiarity. This is not the less 
true of the oft dreaded climax of our earthly existence. 
Men, and women, too, may see, in so many instances, 
human temples of clay deprived of their immortal parts 
and become inanimate, that to their eyes the passing ceases 
to be sacred or profound; becomes commonplace and lacks 
interest. This is especially true of public hospital attend- 
ants in peace, and the merciful followers of the cross of red 
in w T ar. 

One whom years of service had given grim acquaintance 
with such scenes was “Captain” Murphy — captain by 
virtue of decided military bearing sequent upon service in 
governmental employ. Passing along the lower corridor 
of a Pittsburg hospital he met one of the house surgeons. 

‘ ‘Hello, Cap! just hunting you,” cheerfully exclaimed the 
physician. 

‘ ‘So?” nonchalantly queried the captain. 

The surgeon stopped to relight a cigar held between his 
teeth, with an upward tilt throwing the end close to his nose. 

‘ ‘Case 28, men’s emergency ward, is ready for the dead 
house,” he said, in manner as matter-of-fact as a sawyer 
would receive or give information concerning a specified 
log ready for the mill. Turning a page in a memorandum 
he continued, ‘ ‘G. Roberts — railroad case — strange — ” 

“Sir?” interrogated the captain. 

‘ ‘Curious coincidence, I said. Two same name, same 
ward; don’t take the live one,” he admonished, grimly 
smiling. 

Each went his way. The captain’s mission was soon ac- 
complished; another name was added to the long list of 
“accidentally killed.” 


AND OTHER STORIES. 


27 

The ‘ ‘live” G. Roberts was hobbling clumsily on crutches. 
He had come out of the lethargy touching on one side the 
infinite, on the other the living, physical world, in which 
state visitors had been denied entrance to his presence. 
Now that he was getting better he anticipated a visit from 
some of the Furness family, even though Helen’s condition 
prevented her appearance. But no one came; not even a 
letter to give a modicum of comfort in the long days. He 
failed utterly in his many attempts to satisfactorily explain 
to himself why Helen did not write, nor come. Not a little 
of the long convalescence being attributable to this cause. 

‘ ‘You are worrying, my man,” said the physician. “Try 
all you can to be patient and composed, since worry is but 
keeping you here longer.” 

Roberts did not tell him the truth. He continued to 
worry and wonder, surprise growing greater as the days 
went by. But in spite of all, the vigor natural to youth 
asserted itself. One fine Spring morning he walked over 
the Point Bridge to the Furness home. 

‘ ‘They’ve gone; moved months ago,” a neighbor told 
him. 

* ‘And Helen ?” 

“I don’t know,” the woman replied. “She went away 
before they did, I know that,” she concluded. 

Roberts made other investigations, but the result was 
the same. Dispirited, empty of pocket, hungry, he went to 
his old boarding place. The woman he knew was gone, 
but had left his few belongings in care of the newcomer. 
These, however, contained nothing of real value, the more 
treasured articles being a few trinkets belonging to his 
mother and Helen. 

Roberts was of a sensitive disposition, mingled not a 
little with pride; he faltered even when necessity impelled 
the invocation of aid. Many whom he knew would gladly 
have given a brother’s aid, a brother’s care. From the 
source whence had come the hospital expenses gratuity 


28 


OUR BROTHER'S CHILD, 


still flowed. But of their past aid he had been so long a 
beneficiary that he shrank from longer recipiency. Dur- 
ing his earlier illness many had called and been refused ad- 
mittance. Some had come later, talked cheerfully and kind 
for a few minutes, then gone away. But none had men- 
tioned his indebtedness to ‘ Tvanhoe.” Of this he became 
aware through the hospital authorities. In the interim 
Roberts had slipped away, determined to find work. But 
the land groaned with panic. Heavy of heart he went to 
place after place in the city, turning from each with the 
same negation. Evening came, and with it hunger and 
weakness more distressing. 

Darkness was come, and labor — which, had he procured, 
would have been the immediate passport to board and lodg- 
ing — seemed as far away as ever. The last coin between 
him and absolute poverty — a five-cent piece — he took 
from his pocket and looked long and earnestly upon it. 
He had hoped to spend it for an evening meal, slight, but 
partly satisfying. His legs refused to carry him much 
farther, and the next places at which he could hope to ob- 
tain employment were nearly five miles away. He boarded 
a car, and with the reluctancy of a man parting with his 
last friend he gave the coin in payment for the ride. 

********* * 

Roberts staggered hopelessly away from the heated and 
dust-laden air. The last remaining hope of the day had 
failed to materialize. The deep, pellucid river was nearby, 
and thither he turned his steps. The sun was down, and all 
was silent save the booming reverberations of the great en- 
gines, re-echoing from the farther side. The deep and 
musical tones of an up-coming steamboat sounding its 
whistle for “open lock” added a still deeper color to the dark 
melancholia eating its way to the young man’s soul. 

To his soul? 

True; for if the last mortal act be one’s own destruction 


AND OTHER STORIES. 


29 

is not the leading cause striking at something more lasting 
than the mortal clay? 

The murmurs of the broad river were the only sounds to 
arrest immediate attention. But some black clouds were 
breaking, and an occasional silvery stream of light from 
the rising moon shone through upon the water, capping 
the wavelets with a brilliant sheen; making for one of 
normal mood an observation of delight. 

Trembling with the tumult of conflicting emotions George 
threw himself down on the cold sand. His heart was 
breaking — life or death hung tremblingly in the balance. 
It was but a few steps to complete oblivion of sorrow 
which for months had persistently dogged his every move. 
But — and a sickening pause possessed him — his hope of 
seeing Helen would vanish with it. '% 

For some time he seemed to sleep. His mind, weak in 
sympathy with the more tangible part, was exhausted. 
He was again at home, with mother. She was singing. 

The first words were lost, but — and in his dream he lis- 
tened : 

1 ‘And we shall see how, while we frown and sigh, 
God’s plans go on as best for you and me.” 

The singer paused. From afar, but growing nearer 
again came the harmonious sound of the steamboat whistle, 
Would it never cease? 

At last the long drawn blast died convulsively. Over 
where Kennywood now stands the last faint echo receded, 
and again the singer’s voice was heard: 

“And if, sometimes, co-mingled with life’s wine, 

We find the wormwood, and rebel and shrink, 

Be sure a wiser hand than yours or mine 
Pours out this portion for our lips to drink.” 

“Oh, blessed mother, your words are sweet and com- 
forting to my riven soul. Continue! Continue!” 


3 ° 


OUR BROTHER’S CHILD, 


But not for the weary dreamer or the singer does the voice 
of commerce cease. Above, and to the left, a rushing, 
roaring, train o’erwhelmed the human voice. George 
awoke. The train was disappearing in the distance as 
he raised himself to a sitting posture. Across, and directly 
opposite, a faint glimmer streaked the water from a window’s 
light. From the doorway Roberts could distinguish the 
emergence of a woman, who, moving about, continued her 
song: 

“Then be content, poor heart! 

His plans, like lilies, pure and white unfold, 

We must not tear the close-shut leaves apart; 

Time will reveal the calyxes of gold.” 

Once more the strain was broken. The water, throwing 
in manifold intensity the sound of the voice, was ruffled 
into high commotion. The tug slowly neared the lock. 
Its puffing ceased; the stentorian voices of the deck hands 
subsided, and likewise as its hulk was lifted on the inrush- 
ing waters to the level above it, a human soul arose from its 
despondency. 

George looked up to the fast-gathering stars. The spa- 
cious firmament was now flooded with a full moon’s light; 
the last dark cloud had vanished. He knelt with a swaying 
body, his hands entwined in prayer, which, amid the re- 
newed silence was fittingly preluded: 

“And if through patient toil, we reach the land 
Where tired feet, with sandals loose, may rest, 
When we shall clearly know and understand, 

I think that we shall say, ‘God knew the best!’ ” 

The singer was done. 

A roadway leading into the country skirted the hillside. 
Beneath an arc light — the last one receiving its power from 
the huge dynamos at the other end of the borough — Roberts 
took from his pocket, a small silken package: only memento 


AND OTHER STORIES. 


3i 


of loved parents. Carefully he unfolded it — the first time. 
A small, oval daguerreotype containing the features of a 
young man and woman fell to the road. George stooped 
and picked it up. For a moment he thought it the delin- 
eation of his mother and father in their younger days. 
But nol The woman certainly was the exact likeness of 
Mrs. Roberts; but the man, who was he? 

Roberts placed it aside, with several little trifles ac- 
companying it, and continued in search of a letter his mother 
had mentioned. 

He found it. Inscribed in a rough hand was his grand- 
father’s name and address. The town was nearby. His 
grandparent still lived, perhaps. His mother and father 
both had some unexplained reason for not having family 
relations with him. But this was no time for continued 
enmity. He would go. 

The rattle of a farm wagon sounded nearby. 

“Hello!” a voice from the seat called, ‘ ‘goin’ my way?” 
Then, without waiting for an answer, “Whoa! Jump in!” 

George scrambled feebly to the wagon end. 

“Lie down, partner! Lie down sir, I say!” 

George thought the man meant himself, and was not 
loath to follow his command, inasmuch as the wagon bed 
was filled with straw. But he suddenly changed his mind. 
There was another occupant. A deep growl convinced 
him that the man’s words were addressed to a huge dog, 
whose outlines he could discern crouching below the seat 
of his master. 

“Come forward! Come forward! he’ll not hurt you now.” 

Roberts climbed to the seat, and the wagon rumbled on. 

“Goin’ far?” queried the driver. 

“I don’t know,” Roberts replied, diffidence filling his 
mind as the possible failure of his errand appeared. 

“What?” sharply questioned the other man, “don’t 
you know where you’re goin’?” 

“Not exactly; but I’m trying to find a man named 
McFarlane.” 


32 


OUR BROTHER’S CHILD, 


“Old Andy McFarlane!” exclaimed the young man’s 
companion; “why he lives about a mile from my place. 
He’s high in our order, the ” 

The rumble of adjoining mills deadened the conversation 
to an extent sufficient to make almost inaudible the latter 
part of the man’s sentence. But the eager ears of the 
young man had apparently caught with clearness the muf- 
fled sound. His heart fluttered strangely. To be positive 
he asked: “What order did you say?” 

The man repeated, and added, “We both belong to Num- 
ber Eighty-nine.” 

Roberts tried to peer closely into his fellow-traveler’s 
face, but the darkness was too intense to distinguish more 
than the general characteristics of bearded middle age. 

“Then you are an — ” 

“Have been for twenty years,” the man interposed 
proudly. 

Roberts uttered a word, almost inaudibly, but quieter 
still a word was given. Silently hands clasped, and even 
amid the darkness encompassing both — to Roberts within 
and without— brother had found brother, friendless a friend. 
The young man took on renewed spirit, and his heart 
lightened. 

“Then you live in Homestead?” he asked. 

“No; I live on the McKeesport side.” 

“The man I refer to must be other than the one you know; 
his home was on this side of the river,” continued Roberts, 
fumbling in his pocket for the faded envelope containing 
his grandfather’s address, to make sure he was not mis- 
taken. The jolting wagon made difficult the search, so 
he gave it up. 

The driver chirped to his horses. In the near distance 
long tongues of hissing fire leaped from the steel works, 
myriads of sparks adding fierce beauty to the pyrotechnical 
display, a deep, occasional boom making still more real 
the similitude. 


AND OTHER STORIES. 


33 


“ Andy’s works are still on this side,” continued the 
farmer, “but he moved to a place he had built on t’other 
side some years ago. Queer old feller,” he concluded. 
“I take milk an’ eggs there every day.” 

For awhile the men were silent. The horses turned of 
their own volition down a rather steep embankment run- 
ning to a ferry. A few minutes later they climbed the de- 
clivity on the opposite bank, and, turning to the left, broke 
into a faster gait. The driver broke the silence. 

“I suppose you’re goin’ to get work off McFarlane?” 

“It will depend on how I am received,” Roberts answered. 

The farmer looked into his face through the darkness. 
He couldn’t understand why a man should be going to a 
place and not know his purpose. 

“McFarlane is my grandfather,” Roberts resumed. 

“Your grandfather!” exclaimed the farmer in surprise. 
“I didn’t know Andy had any — oh, yes — let’s see — why, are 
you Miss Sarah’s boy? She as went away with young 
Roberts?” 

“That was my mother’s name,” replied George. 

“Well, if this ain’t the queerest doin’s I’ve heard tell of 
for a long spell. Then I suppose you’ve come from some 
long way off?” 

“From Mercy Hospital.” 

“Where?” 

“Mercy Hospital,” Roberts repeated. 

“Is — that — so?” drawled the driver of the wagon. 
“And where did you live before Mercy Hospital?” 

“On the South Side.” 

“Well, if that ain’t a caution. Old Andy— I mean your 
grandfather — had men out in the West lookin’ for your 
mother and father for a long time, and you’re tellin’ me 
you’ve been livin’ on the South Side. And your mother?” 

“My parents are both dead.” 

“Died in the West?” 

“No,” replied Roberts. “They came from the West 
while I was yet a child.” 


34 


OUR BROTHER’S CHILD, 


For some distance the men rode in silence. The wagon 
rattled on over the rather rough road skirting the river. 
Brushing its left side boards were slender branches of marsh 
willows. To the right arose almost perpendicular, the 
dark, semi-mountains skirting the right bank of the Monon- 
gahela, going South. In fitful streaks across the water 
came the reflection from the fiery stacks they had passed on 
the other bank. From among the wooded stretches above 
came in dull crashes the echo of ponderous steel. 

The farmer was first to speak. “That’ll kill old Andy — 
er — I mean your grandfather.” 

“I hope not,” said George. 

“I’m afraid it will. He’s set store on seein’ his daughter, 
specially since his wife, your grandmother, died. Your 
mother was a fine girl, but like her father — set a pitch an’ 
stuck to it.” 

The wagon rattled along; so did the farmer. “The world 
don’t seem to have used you as well as it might,” making 
as well as the night allowed an inspection of the young 
man’s clothes. 

“Not very well,” replied Roberts. His voice trembled 
appreciably, and for an instant a strange numbness came 
over him. He clutched tightly at the wagon seat in an en- 
deavor to arrest the irresistible desire his body had to lean 
forward. The trees looming plainly on the hillside began 
phantasmagorically to recede into the far, oh, such a far, 
distance! The deep reverberations grew strangely silent, 
and all distant noise, as well as that of the vehicle beneath 
him, to subside with consciousness into oblivion. Roberts 
had fainted. 

At the moment the young man lapsed into unconscious- 
ness the wagon drew up alongside a farmhouse. At the 
sound of its approach a woman within took from a shelf 
a lighted lantern, and stepped out into the yard. 

“Hurry up, Mandy, hurry up!” came the voice from the 
road. 


AND OTHER STORIES. 


35 


She went speedily to the gate, not without a feeling of 
trepidation. Mrs. Martin was fearful lest in the course 
of the day at town her husband had looked once too often 
through the glass bottom. The occasions on which this 
happened were very rare, hence dreaded more. 

“Is there something wrong with you, Josiah?” 

“Nothin’ wrong with me, Mandy,” he assured her; 
“but I’ve a young man here what’s sick. He’s old Andy’s 
girl’s — you know Sarah?” 

The urgency of attendance on the sick man stopped the 
conversation. 

Mrs. Martin returned to the house, and from a cupboard 
brought cordial of her own making. She reached for a cup, 
then returned to the wagon. 

“Give him this, Josiah,” she said. 

Martin held Robert’s head on his knee and gave him of 
the wine. Nature slowly asserted itself. The liquid stim- 
ulated, and in a few minutes he walked unaided to the 
house. 

Mrs. Martin had already prepared a couch for his com- 
fort. A warm, nourishing supper and a soft, well-made 
bed eased and strengthened the tired body. 

Roberts slept long on the following morning. He didn’t 
hear Martin’s milk wagon rattle away in the direction of 
Andy McFarlane’s home. He didn’t see the disbelief give 
way before the earnestly-told incidents of the night pre- 
ceding. He did not see the breakfastless departure of a 
trembling old man who had determined to undo much that 
might have well been left undone years before. But how- 
ever good his later intentions this he could not do. He could 
make amends, but the past was irretrievably gone beyond 
his changing. 

“Wait a minute, Martin,” he called to the farmer. “I’ll 
go alang wi’ ye to the laddie, an’ save auld Tammas frae 
hitchin’ up.” 

The two men drove away. Josiah was in his usual 


36 


OUR BROTHER’S CHILD, 


amiable mood, but McFarlane was quiet and unusually tac- 
iturn. Thoughts of years gone were crowding fast upon 
him. His only daughter had been very dear to him in hav- 
ing a disposition so like his own. Though the cares of life 
had partly displaced the supremity she once held, the 
romance of long-forgotten incidents now in its turn over- 
whelmingly reigned above all else, and glossed over much 
that had hitherto filled the old man’s mind with bitterness. 
He could see again those hours they sat by the firelight, 
when he listened with unfeigned joy to her prattling. He 
could feel again the soft arms as they wrapped themselves 
about his neck in the days when Youth and he were part- 
ners. Scene after scene went in review before him. The 
last hour had been fraught with violent remorse. Never 
had he given place in his mind to a settled conviction that he 
and Sarah were never to meet again. He had felt a soft- 
ening within himself; hence his constant inquiries. He 
believed time would effect a reunion ; and now she was gone. 

The East was a ruddy glow. The sun burst over every 
living thing in full intensity. As he leaned back in the seat 
he was scarcely sensible of his surroundings. The joy ap- 
parent in all animate things was palpable mockery to the 
misery of his own heart. Martin, by his side, was in a 
cheerful, even garrulous mood, but his words fell on deaf 
ears. 

The vehicle drew slowly before the house. Through the 
large pines standing like sentinels at its front the strong 
winds of early Spring sounded funereal to one in his distress. 

McFarlane entered the house. From an upper chamber 
he heard the step of him who alone remained — his son, in- 
asmuch as his daughter had borne him — the grandchild — 
the only one — and one his eyes had never seen. 

Such scenes as this it is not within the privileges of the 
stranger to look upon. For us its sacredness shall be in- 
violable. We will leave the trembling hands of the old man 
clasped in those much younger but not much less infirm 


AND OTHER STORIES. 


37 


than his own. We will leave him to shed mingled tears of 
sorrow and joy over this meeting, so soon to be followed by 
one less transient— one that shall last through all eternity. 

Sooner than he had dared hope — sooner than any who 
knew him would have surmised — his soul winged its way 
to that reunion he had so long desired. Less than a week 
later swords were crossed as they carried him* to rest in a 
quiet spot overlooking the broad river. The only living 
relative to mourn him was George. 

He took up the burden of much business, and by the terms 
of a will written in the days of bitterness, there he was com- 
pelled to remain for a definite period, “to prove his capa- 
bility.” After seeing his grandson McFarlane had intended 
a revision of this latter clause, but a week’s procrastination 
had ended abruptly both action and desire. 

* * ****** * * 

Truly the ways of Providence are beyond our understand- 
ing. When Oakley left Helen he went to a mining town 
some miles distant, at which place he had received orders 
to install some mining machinery. At the “ company board- 
ing house” he procured lodging. With many others he sat 
in the “loafing room” awaiting supper. A young woman, 
evidently employed at the house, came in to speak to one 
of the men. Oakley turned, surprised. Had he not left 
Helen ill and unable to travel he could have sworn the 
woman before him was she; the same wavy hair, dark 
eyes, and general contour of face made uncommon 
similitude. 

“Do you know the name of that young woman ?” he asked 
of a companion. 

“Sarah, I think,” the latter repli^ 

“But her other name?” 


*Part of the funeral as conducted over the open grave of a depart 
ed brother— K. G. E. (W. H. R.) 


38 


OUR BROTHER’S CHILEV 


‘ 1 think it’s the same as her uncle’s what keeps the house,” 
was the unsatisfactory answer. 

“What is his name, then?” 

“Furness; why?” 

Oakley did not reply. He turned his eyes again towards 
the girl standing in a distant corner. “I thought as much,” 
he murmured, almost inaudibly. 

It was several days later before she came in again. Oak- 
ley was alone, reading. The other men were nearly all at 
work or in the village. Bob was on night turn. 

“Miss Furness,” he started abruptly, laying down his 
paper. 

The young woman ceased sweeping. “Did you speak 
to me?” she asked, blushing, for contact with many men, 
of many kinds, was not hers, as yet. 

Oakley plunged straight into the subject nearest his 
heart. “Have you a sister named Helen.” 

The girl paled, and a look akin to shame crossed her face. 
“Yes — we — Helen is my sister’s name,” she stammered. 

“Do you know where she is?” 

The young woman came closer and sat down. “No. 

We knew she was at , but that was before mother and 

the family moved away. We have not had any news of her 
since — George — her hus — since George was hurt,” she 
faltered, not wishing to be positive regarding a matter of 
which she felt uncertain. It was plain the conversation 
pained her. She was glad to hear tidings of her sister, 
but she felt that the young man before her knew of her 
condition as well as location. The questions he asked, 
and the method of asking were not of the stranger. 

“ Do you know — ” Oakley stopped. The young woman’s 
face grew redder than the coals in the grate; she anticipated 
what he was about to say. “Do you know,” he started 
again, “that Helen is confined; that she has a little girl?” 

Helen’s sister was visibly affected, but she overcame the 
emotion sufficiently to say: “I knew she was — ” She stopped 


AND OTHER STORIES. 


39 


suddenly, and Oakley continued: * ‘Does your motner, or 
rather, step-mother and the family know that the — the father 
of Helen’s child is dead ?” 

“Oh God!” she cried, “do you tell me George’s dead?” 

Oakley told her what he knew. 

“Poor Helen — and — and her baby!” Sarah murmured 
amid her tears. “Our step-mother drove her away by her 
nastiness, and for a time we did not know what was become 
of her.” 

“Did your step-mother know Helen was married?” 

“Married!” the girl echoed, in joyful exultation. “If that 
is true, oh, if that is true!” 

Oakley assured her that Helen’s child had come into the 
world legitimately, also that she was being well cared for 
at present. He forgot to state, however, to whom her care 
was mainly due, magnanimously giving all the praise to Mrs. 
Sontag. 

The young woman listened intently, as the story of pre- 
ceding days was told, her tears turning to smiles, and again 
to tears as the memory of Helen’s husband came upon her. 
She wrote long and lovingly to her sister that afternoon, 
telling in her simple way of the events she knew Helen would 
want to hear. She dilated on her interview with Oakley, 
and ended by confessing that she was “already over head 
and ears in love with him.” 

That this sentiment was reciprocated was fully evidenced 
a few months later, when Oakley took Sarah as his bride 
to the new assignment he had received. 

Letters and small remittances went frequently in the 
after months to the Sontag boarding house, and when that 
kindly woman and her husband went to a Western mining 
country Elelen availed herself of the oft repeated invitation 
to share the Oakley home. 

She went one morning, when the early frost had whitened 
the ground, to the station, and several hours later was 
ushered into a room in which lay her sister and her first 


40 


OUR BROTHER’S CHILD, 


baby, a boy. From that day until careless mining officials 
by their laxity removed from their earthly labors Oakley 
and nearly two hundred of his fellows, Helen and little 
Tressy abided there. Older in years and experience, Elelen 
was as a mother to the younger sister, perfect harmony 
making life pleasant for them all until — until when the 
younger sister knew the desperate truth, modified to an ap- 
preciable extent by accompanying joy, and the knowledge 
of long suspense ended, she sobbed out on her sister’s breast: 
“The will of God be done. I have shared equal joy, sister, 
equal sorrow must from now on be my portion.” 

On coming into possession of his grandfather’s property, 
Roberts immediately set about what proved a hard task: 
the finding of Helen. Months wore away into years, each 
one adding to gray hairs prematurely abundant. Like a 
canker long-sustained suspense ate away the vitality of his 
life, and, at the end of probation, when he turned over to 
competent hands the management of the estate, one not 
knowing different would have counted his years nearer fifty 
than thirty. His peace of mind was never disturbed by 
injustice omissive or commissive. His employees found in 
him a good, even personal friend, and to those who through 
no fault of their own were suffering as he had done no man 
may compute his kindness. He delved deep into the sor- 
rows of their lives, partly from a selfish motive, for thereby 
lay a lessening of his own. Have you not felt likewise, 
reader, when, in the midst of sorrow you thought greater 
than you could bear, you heard of a neighbor having af- 
fliction compared with which your own was trivial ? 

Following this inclination Roberts went one day to an 
editorial office in the city. To the end that publicity might 
follow his labors he sought one of the staff with whom he 
had considerable influence: a young man who had left 
his employ several years before. Roberts was ushered, a 
few minutes later, into the presence of the managing editor. 


AND OTHER STORIES. 


4i 


The journalist turned in his chair, and plunged instantly 
into the heart of the subject. 

“To what locality shall you confine yourself, Mr. 
Roberts?” 

“To no particular class or community,” answered he. 
“Anywhere inclination or circumstances might take me.” 

“How often may we expect a contribution?” 

For a moment Roberts was silent. “About once a week; 
in time for your Sunday issue.” 

The editor wrote on a pad lying before him. 

“And the caption?” 

“You are the better judge as to that,” Roberts replied. 

The editor suggested several titles, neither of which 
seemed appropriate. Roberts, who had apparently given 
the subject deeper thought offered “The Story of the Poor.” 

“First rate. Now, as regards payment?” smilingly con- 
tinued the editor. The answer, however, was unexpected, 
but was fulfilled later to the letter. 

“The usual payment,” replied Roberts; “the total pro- 
ceeds to be forwarded to Mercy Hospital; specify ‘emergencv 
ward’.” 

The editor wrote rapidly for a moment. 

“Well?” he asked. 

Roberts took up his hat and overcoat. 

“That is all,” he replied. 

He shook hands and departed, not thinking for a moment 
that his first self-imposed assignment would be amid such 
scenes as he was destined to witness; nor that the outcome 
would lead him over vast stretches of country, as it eventually 
did. 

Scarcely had he left the editorial room when men began 
to whisper, as they gathered on street corners or by news- 
paper stands, of “another explosion.” 

To the citizen of New England, who perhaps in all his 
life has never seen the grim holes from whence comes his 
fuel, the words would scarce bring a moment’s thought; 


42 


OUR BROTHER’S CHILD, 


but to these men conversant with its terrible meaning, it 
foretold all manner of evil. This is sufficient reason for 
details to be omitted here. Enough has been mentioned of 
the dark side of life as it really exists. We would fain hurry 
the reader to scenes more pleasant. 

In our hurried passing, however, we are compelled to get 
one sad glimpse. This done, we shall leave for the columns 
of the daily press the unenviable necessity of recounting 
incidents which are, unhappily, of too frequent repetition 
in the vicinity indicated. 

Roberts, with a score of “professionals”, had been for 
two days at the scene of calamity. In a little schoolhouse 
the authorities prepared for last journeys men who had 
resided but a short time in the village previous to the 
accident. Some of them had not been in the mine even long 
enough to have their names recorded on the company’s 
books, hence, except in a few instances, they were laid to rest 
among the “unknown.” 

From the pockets of one was taken a letter, and, with a few 
other articles, among them an emblem of an order to which 
the owner had evidently belonged, was placed for inspection. 
Roberts scrutinized closely the several articles, his attention 
especially drawn to the emblematical charm. The better 
to examine it he moved to a portion of the room having better 
light, and held its dusty surface for contrast with the bril- 
liant gold pendant hanging from his own vest; and the 
signs were the same. 

Interested, he went back to the table and lifted the letter. 
No envelope covered it, neither was the date and starting 
point complete. A corner of its front leaf had been burnt 
away, indicating a sudden change of mind. Three letters 
alone remained as a clue to the town from whence it had 

come: “Was ”. The man was unaccounted for on the 

roll of employees, hence the deduction that he was one of 
several strangers in the mine on the fatal morning. His 
clothes — for he was one of the few who escaped the flames 


AND OTHER STORIES. 


43 


to meet a swift and painless death by afterdamp — indicated 
that he was a mechanic or engineer. Several little imple- 
ments found with the letter gave like evidence. 

Roberts laid aside the mute evidence of a brother’s death, 
and took up the letter. He turned the pages and came to 
the signature. The blood receded from his face, and he 
would have fallen but for the support of his companion. 

“Why — er — what’s wrong, George?” the reporter asked. 
Then, as Roberts turned to leave the room, “Are you ill?” 

“Oh, no,” George replied, “the room’s a trifle close, I 
think.” 

He had scarcely strength to walk, but composed himself 
sufficiently to go to the door and down five steps leading to 
the ground. Below one of the windows, where the pale 
light of oil lamps shone through, he took from among other 
things a tiny book, so small as to hardly deserve the name. 
It was one in which Helen had written her name. With it 
was a check book, whose pages, had Roberts been so minded, 
could have been called upon to furnish abundant gold. 
But of the two it is probable the little book was prized the 
higher. He held it and the letter together: the inscriptions 
were alike. Helen — his Helen had undoubtedly written them 
both. The mysterious causes which had worked unknown 
to him were, after the letter’s reading even more puzzling, 
but that her love and fidelity were not less he felt confident, 
and was satisfied that could he find her all would be ex- 
plained. Roberts stepped quickly back to the place he 
had left. 

“Don’t take that body to the common grave,” he com- 
manded; “send it to Riverview Cemetery; place it in a vault 
and await further instructions.” 

“Expense,” muttered the undertaker, who thought 
Roberts an employee of one of the papers represented. 

Roberts moved to a seat, and returned with a check in 
his hand. This he gave to the undertaker with the request 
that any additional expense should be placed to his account 
at The German National. 


44 OUR BROTHER’S CHILD, 

“You are not going, Mr. Roberts?” exclaimed several in 
unison. 

He turned for a moment, stepped back to the group and 
shook hands with each one. 

“I’ll be some time away — perhaps a long time,” he said, 
“I’m going to find the home — the wife — or rather, the widow 
— ” he corrected, a note of sadness vibrating his voice — 
“and the child this man has left, and I don’t know where it 
will lead me.” 

“Good-bye, fellows, good-bye,” he waved from the door- 
way. 

“Queer fellow, that,” said one of the newspaper men. 
“Got a lot of property, works, and such like, but prefers 
to work for the papers. Catch me doing it ! I guess not,” 
he concluded, emphatically. 

“Makes a hobby of such cases as he’s assigned himself 
just now,” another informed them. 

But alas! as Roberts confessed some months later in the 
deepness of his despair, what a difference between concep- 
tion and execution ! He longed from the depths of a father’s 
heart for his child — his Tressy — and he longed for Helen — 
his Helen — with all the ardency of love’s rekindled fire. 
For a time hope long deferred had made sick his heart, 
and smothered to an appreciable extent the burning desire. 
His mind had been dulled by its own inability to com- 
prehend Helen. But in the flood-tide of this new knowledge 
it leaped again as was its wont, and trebly so from treble 
cause: were there not three to share his attention? 

Fast as the fast-flying monsters of the rail could take him 
he journeyed from one to the other of many towns and 
villages having as part of their name the syllable found on 
the letter, after he had made an exhaustive search in each. 
Still following this clue, and then that, — all vague threads 
in a tangled skein of circumstances — we leave him, full of 
unparalleled perseverance in spite of repeated failures. 


AND OTHER STORIES. 


45 


In a small house built on the outskirts of a mining town, 
a little girl of some seven years sat interestedly watching her 
mother and her aunt ply their needles. They were making 
embroidered chair cushions. 

What had been, some months previous, a pleasurable 
pastime, was now a necessity. They were doing it — and the 
elder woman was shedding tears as she worked — to buy 
bread for the little boy and girl at their knees, and for 
themselves. The weeping woman was not tearful because 
of the necessity for labor. This was not a new phase of life 
— for her; she had labored for bread before. 

The younger sister had just come in from the post-office. 

“No mail this morning, sister,” she said sadly, in answer 
to an imploring look. 

For a few minutes the sisters talked quietly before re- 
suming their sewing. The two children at their feet were 
already at play, after greeting the mother and aunt in child- 
ish boisterousness. Each day was but a repetition of the 
day preceding, until as the days wore into weeks, and the 
weeks into months, the sisters were fain to cry as another 
had done before them: “I have known some happy hours, 
but all now seems to lead to sorrow, and not only the cups 
of wine, but of milk, seem drugged with poison for me! 
I do not court these things; they come!” Afar, another 
soul was lifting up its voice in a similar cry, unable to see or 
understand the mysterious Providence working thus harshly 
to bring joy out of sorrow — from grief and separation an en- 
during reunion destined to remain unbroken this side of the 
grave. They could not see the diverged angles of destiny 
coming to a point the manner of which was known only to the 
all-wise Ruler of the universe and our humble lives. But 
it is well. The gold — pure and undefiled — comes only by 
way of the furnace. The true serenity of life, as of the ele- 
ments, is the child of the seething storm. 

“Tomorrow one of us must try to sell some of our stock,” 
said the elder sister. 


46 


OUR BROTHER’S CHILD; 


‘Tan I dow wid you?” inquired the lad at her feet. 

“No, Bobbie,” his aunt replied, patting his curly head. 
“Perhaps when you are so high,” holding her hand level 
with her own shoulder, “then, perhaps.” 

“I tan tarry one,” he persisted; “I’m stronger dan Tessy,” 
and he gave “Tessy” a vigorous push to prove his assertion. 

The “ tomorrow” came, and with it the inevitable. “ Ped- 
dle” they must if they would live. Bobbie’s mother went for 
the first time, a sample neatly wrapped in one hand, an order 
book in the other. Day after day she continued the un- 
congenial toil, success varying. Helen cared for the chil- 
dren, and sewed almost incessantly. Some months passed 
when one day Sarah was accosted by a stranger — a man 
prematurely old and a careworn look in his face. This of 
itself was not unusual — men often took compassion and 
bought of her, drawn to her doubtless by her clean and tidy 
appearance. But this stranger was an exception. He was 
importunate to an embarrassing degree, but he did not buy. 
He was, however, uncommonly kind; offering to carry her 
bundle until the last one should be distributed. 

“He says something about a city paper for which he is 
writing a — series — I think it was, about the lives of the poor,” 
said Sarah, that evening. “He would have kept me talking 
a long time, but I had to go and leave him.” 

“It’s strange the city papers can’t leave poor people alone 
with their distress,” replied the elder sister, busily engaged 
preparing the evening meal. Then, “Has he gone away?” 

“No; he said he would stay until we could tell him about 
our lives, as we were ‘exceptionally good subjects for a 
sketch.’ ” 

“Sarah,” said Helen, somewhat sternly, “the man is 
impudent. I hope you did not give him any encourage- 
ment.” 

Sarah looked abashed. 

“I did; it was the only answer he would take.” 

Helen placed the knives and forks beneath the plates 
setting, simple as was the meal, on a snow-white tablecloth. 


AND OTHER STORIES. 


47 


"I’m very sorry— and— vexed,” was all she said. 

“You wouldn’t be if you saw him, Helen. He was not 
the least bit rude. They say those newspaper men have a 
way of being persistent,” she concluded. 

“Supper’s ready, Sarah.” 

The family sat down after asking a blessing on the food 
before them. Bobbie, who had been busy at play, yet, 
by that indefinable method we know but cannot understand, 
had heard all the grown-ups were speaking of, asked if 
that man were his papa. 

His mother turned and was silent. 

“No, Bobbie, papa hasn’t come back yet,” his aunt 
replied. Then, to her sister, “The man said we would be 
well paid for any information we chose to give.” 

“When will he come?” asked Tressy’s mother. 

“I told him I would not be canvassing tomorrow, and that 
he could come then.” 

“Did you promise to take payment?” 

Independence and pride glinted from the younger sister’s 
eyes, as she answered the question, even as it had from that 
one whom by virtue of her age, and common assent, con- 
sidered herself responsible for the conduct of all. 

“No, indeed!” came the quick reply. 

“I’m glad of that.” 

For a while was silence. After supper the sisters and the 
children gathered beneath a large willow giving shade to 
their yard. Here the incidents of the day were recounted; 
the children played; their elders planned, as their limited 
insight into futurity gave wisdom as to the best course to 
pursue; the shades of evening gathered, and they, with all 
their neighbors, were soon at rest in slumber. 

For the conclusion of my story I am indebted to George 
Roberts, Esquire. It had originally been written under 
the sub-title of “Noblesse Oblige,” as one in a series de- 
scribing the lives of the poor. Inasmuch as it was the last 
written, and its conclusion so happily different from those 


48 


OUR BROTHER’S CHILD, 


preceding it, moreover so personal to the correspondent, 
it was withheld. The real identity of the persons mentioned 
being concealed, I shall not be accounted guilty of violating 
confidence, nor plagiarism, since the story has not hitherto 
been published. 

Since perusing the foregoing part of ‘ Our Brother’s Child,’ 
as w'ritten by Mr. Reynolds, I deem it unnecessary to recount 

the incidents leading to my visit to the town of W . 

Suffice it that I had given up all hope of executing my mis- 
sion as conceived in the schoolhouse. After months of 
travel and search I had resumed my literary labors, in which 
I found my only interest. From my journeyings I had re- 
turned in humility; humbled that my search had proved 
futile, and with a better understanding of the insignificance 
and infinitestimal smallness of any one individual in this 
great country of ours. I had seen how all-important one 
can be to one’s own self, and one’s immediate circle, yet how 
unimportant amid the vastness of the whole. 

Thoroughly imbued with a resolution to submit to cir- 
cumstances over which all my efforts were vain, I reached, 
one August morning, the town aforementioned. Note-book 
in hand I turned sharply around a corner, my steps directed 
away from the hotel which for the time was my stopping 
place. 

As I turned full abreast into the thoroughfare the plain- 
tive notes of a song wafted to my ears, making, if that were 
possible, more deeply seated the melancholia still clutching 
me in its grasp. I listened, walked a short distance, and 
came abreast the singer. Her voice, melodious and full, 
was accompanied by the sweet chords necessary to complete 
symphony. Loud above the piano’s notes I heard the words : 

‘ ‘What might be done if men were wise, 

What glorious deeds my suffering brother, 

Would they unite, in love and right, 

And cease their scorn of one another.” 


AND OTHER STORIES. 


49 


It had been a terrific hot day. The alleys of the town 
were dirty and ill-smelling. From far down one of these 
thoroughfares, lined with out-houses, garbage barrels, tin 
cans showing every degree of rustiness, empty bottles, old 
shoes, and the general riff-raff of an immaculate front, 
came a woman. 

To some she was a “ peddler” ; to me a heroine. I am glad 
to know many of her kind — patient, self-respecting women 
whom an ill-turn in the wheel of life has compelled to battle 
for their own and their children’s bread. 

The noon whistles had quite a long time past been sounded. 
From her appearance the woman had travelled over a con- 
siderable portion of the town before entering the public 
square to rest on one of its benches. 

With a sigh she laid down the articles she carried. I 
spoke to her, and, startled, surprised, at this overconfidence 
of a stranger (insofar as concerned his ability to engage her 
in conversation) she at first answered my questions only in 
monosyllables. 

The woman was fair to look upon. Despite apparent 
hardship her cheek had lost none of the bloom synonymous 
with the flower of womanhood. A round chin, tiny, dimp- 
led, sat prettily beneath a mouth as finely curved as any ever 
delighting the eye of an artist. On her finger I noted a 
wedding ring. 

She rose to resume her journeying. Respectfully I of- 
fered my aid for the rest of the day, and just as respectfully 
it was declined. But before losing sight of her I exacted 
a promise to see me on the morrow. 

To obtain the promised interview — to receive from direct 
source the facts I had made it my mission to procure — I 
climbed the hills marking the sub-division from the town 
proper, then along a level stretch of road to the cottage — 
the home of the “peddler woman” and her sister. 

There, beneath a wide- spreading willow, I gleaned ad- 
ditional facts for my “Story of the Poor”; which in this case, 


50 OUR BROTHER’S CHILD, 

as in all others, varies only as vary circumstance and loca- 
tion. 

********* * 
Note. 

Many pages of Mr. Roberts’ manuscript are here omitted, 
having no direct bearing on our story. They are interesting 
in themselves, but what the reader wants to know is of Helen, 
hence we resume near the end of the article. 

During the entire recital of the woman’s story I had keenly 
noted a resemblance to one I dearly loved. The similitude 
was entirely lacking when one looked her straight in the 
face, but an oblique view, showing in full certain peculiarities 
of feature accompanied by a slight catch in her voice, drew 
strong my attention. 

“I have told you all, sir,” she said as she arose to go. 

The children were playing at her feet. 

“Not all,” I replied, as I examined her face more closely 
still. “Pardon me, but,” and my gaze rested on the ring 
glistening in the sunlight, “are — you will not be offended?” 

“No,” she answered, smiling. 

“Are these your children?” 

She straightened the little lad’s tangled locks, disheveled 
in his play. “This one is mine; the little girl is my sister’s 
child.” 

I presumed as much, for the children were far from ap- 
pearing as of the same parentage. “And your sister is — ” 

“A widow,” she interposed, sadly. “She is in the house 
yonder, do you wish to see her?” 

“Yes, presently,” I answered, “to thank her as well as 
yourself for this interview. But, as I was about to remark, 
you have a decided resemblance to a woman I used to know ; 
but then, it cannot — ” 

I was interrupted by a voice below me. 

“Does you live in the city?”^ 


AND OTHER STORIES. 


5i 


I bent to my wee interrogator, replacing for him a soldier 
he had accidentally “killed” while rising to question me. 
“Yes, my boy, sometimes; why?” 

“Tause Auntie says she will take me an’ Tessy an’ Wover, 
sometime.” 

I bent to the child, and in answer to my question he re- 
peated his words. I was pale and trembling, at I learned 
later, when I turned to the young woman and asked her 
sister’s name. 

“Helen,” she replied. 

I clutched at the seat, otherwise in the extremity of my 
weakness I must have fallen. My mind, deluded hitherto 
by false anticipations, soon recovered itself, and partial 
equcj'phnity replaced physical weakness with a stronger feel- 
ing, Mi was well that this was so, or the sudden confirmation 
^of my wildest hopes were, indeed, sufficient to unseat reason 
' by excessive joy. 
f “Was your maiden name — ” 
j “Furness,” she interposed. 

My mind failed to fully grasp the pivotal importance of 
those words at the instant they were uttered. In a semi- 
dazed manner there percolated upon me the information 
that my travels and disappointments were ended in this 
unlooked-for place. In vain moments I had conjured a 
climax and environment befitting an occasion so deeply 
centered into my life; if lacking pretentiousness at least tragic. 
Those little walls, then, held all that was dear to me in this 
world; all that years of persistent effort had failed to bring 
had accidentally, providentially, thrust upon me. My cup 
of joy was fast filling, and with it came full realization. 

“Sarah! my child — my child!” I cried, as the woman, 
alarmed for my senses, watched me take to my breast the 
little girl. 

“Oh, sir, is there anything wrong — with — with — ” 
“Nothing; thank God; nothing!” I interposed; “all, in- 
stead, is right.” 


5 2 


OUR BROTHER’S CHILD 


She moved farther away, and stood staring at me, helpless, 
having no cause to comprehend my meaning. 

“Sarah Furness,” I exclaimed, calling her by the name 
I knew, “do you not know me?” 

For an instant she closely scrutinized me. I asked again, 
“Do you not know George Roberts?” 

“My God!” she cried, not irreverently, “are you really, 
truly, George? Why we — we — thought you dead!” 

I took her arm in mine. “Come,” I said, “let us go 
quickly to Helen.” 

********* * 

HONOR. 

'<* 2 \ 

H t/IuC 

Of that meeting I shall say little. The tumultuC r i . po- 
tions, as I told of my life from the day I had last seen them 
until then, how I had learned of Oakley’s death, of my 
wanderings through many states, are scenes not to be de- 
picted by my pen. There stirs that within the human breast 
at such times which never comes again — emotions so rev- 
erential, so deep, as to be past portrayal. 

Paradoxically, it was a joyful meeting, yet, sad, oh, how 
sad! Sunshine and shadow were, as they often are, closely 
allied. The afternoon went swiftly by — for me. I learned 
how, weeks afterward, letters that had been written for me 
and Jennie were found in the volunteer mail carrier’s 
pocket. I listened with rapt attention to Helen’s version 
of her flight from home, and fully concurred in the validity 
of her reasons for such action. It was with reluctance I 
left them long enough to go back to the town’s centre to 
cancel my self-imposed mission by telegraph. 

As I went out of the gate I placed in Bobbie’s hand a silver 
coin, for a small candy store did business nearby, and ad- 
jured hhn to take “Tessy” and “Wover”. “Good-bye,” 
I said, lifting his chubby face to mine. 

“Dud bye,” he lisped. Then, “Are you doin’ to de city ?” 


AND OTHER STORIES. 


53 

'‘Not yet,” I replied. “Perhaps when I go I will take 
you to see the big houses.” 

“Will you, weally?” 

“Yes ” 

“An’ Tessy?” 

“Yes ” 

“An’ Wover?” 

“Yes.” 

‘Tause he’s a dud dod to me an’ Tessy.” 

The following day, Sarah, Helen, the two children, and I, 
started on a lengthy journey. Sadness and pleasure were 
uncommonly mingled with us all except the little ones. 

Far from the city, its smoke, its noise, with feelings of 
worshippers at a holy shrine, we breathed the perfume of 
the upland city of the dead. Sunset of a beautiful day was 
approaching. From a broad piece of gradually uprising 
ground a tapering spire parted a distant grove of trees loom- 
ing dark against the fast reddening sky. To the right lay 
a green meadow, to the left the graveyard. With mel- 
ancholic thoughts, — Sarah, especially, so wrought that dis- 
tress near overcame her strength — we walked between long 
rows of the dark mansions which we, too, must so soon oc- 
.cupy. Turning, we passed rows of cypress waving sadly 
and funereal above the monuments of stone. 

“This way,” said our guide, as we followed, quietly and 
grief-stricken where he led. 

“This way,” I echoed. “This way the pride, the pre- 
tension, the ambition, the vanities of humanity end. This 
way animosity is buried, service made powerless, love loses 
its potency for evil or good, virtue and sin alike await the 
last call of an all-powerful God.” 

We came to a well-cared-for lot, in which flowers and trees 
were regularly planted, covering with their beauty the base 
of a towering shaft. 

The trees of the vicinity stirred as a slight wind swept 
through them. A faint hum of the distant city came with 


54 


OUR BROTHER’S CHILD, 


it: incongruous reminder of that other world. The women 
by my side sobbed piteously, and my own eyes were not dry. 
The form below us we had all loved. I, who had not seen 
him, felt for him as for one of the same flesh — of the same 
parents. Beneath the outspread hand of an allegoric figure 
exemplifying his life there lay deep in the everlasting stone 
one word — the only one I had caused to be engraved: — 
FIDELITY, and beneath it the mystic signs copied, as 
well as the chisel could, from the most treasured article in 
my possession. Reverently I laid my wreath upon the 
mound; Helen and Sarah did likewise. Plucking a small 
bunch of leaves I turned. The sun was fast sinking below 
the distant hills; the faint breeze had ceased to murmur 
in the cypress boughs. I took each sister’s arm in mine, 
and slowly we retraced our steps to the carriage at the gate. 
A few minutes later we were well on our way to the deep 
valleys from whence came stronger and stronger the voices 
of Life. 

Thus ended our first visit to this beautiful spot, whence 
frequently in after days, we wended, and where, in God’s 
own time, we, too, shall be laid, whether or not we shall de- 
serve the inscription that covers our future companion in 
silence. 

A few days later Bobbie went with me to the city, He sat 
by my side, and next to an open window, asking intermit- 
tently if this or that group of houses fast appearing and di- 
minishing on the landscape were “Mamma’s and Auntie’s 
new home?” On the opposite side of the aisle sat my 
daughter, whom I cared for not more than the child of him 
who had cared so well for mine. Her mother and Sarah oc- 
cupied the same seat, for the car was crowded. Helen’s 
dark eyes looked occasionally into mine, demurely and smil- 
ing as my gaze met hers. A puff of wind rushing through 
the open window displaced now and again a curl from among 
many clustering on her shoulders. Subconsciously she 
reached up her hand to replace it, and, as I furtively watched 


AND OTHER STORIES. 


55 


her — when Bobbie allowed me a breathing spell — I saw 
glistening on her finger not the gold band common to wedded 
life, but two. Beside the wedding ring of my own placing 
reposed another, narrowed and engraved with his initials. 

Jealous? 

No! May God punish me eternally if I do not love her 
more for treasuring it! 


The End of “Our Brother’s Child.” 


A QUEST REWARDED. * 


I looked for Peace amid Elysian fields — 

Elysian only from the distant view — 

Where stern Authority its baton wields 

To cow the Wrong — uphold the Right and shie ds 

The many weak from the much stronger few. 

Among the worldly rich anon probed I, 

And found them burthened with the major part 
Of Sorrow’s own. I found not song but sigh. 
For where Man’s treasures are there also lie 
The constant thoughts and desires of the heart. 

I traveled far to Fame — the mooted goal 
Men strive so hard to gain so easily lose — 

And found an empty bauble for mine own ; 

Like tropic waters, and like seething foam 
It had a subtle penchant to diffuse. 

Tired, wearied by the search, I sat me down 
Beside a little cottage, humbly built, 

And found the gem exquisite for Life’s crown: 
Existence with content and not the frown, 

The sinuousness, the trickery, and guilt. 


To the Reader: — 

* This poem, and many following, all written by the author of 
“Our Brother’s Child,” as well as essays, articles, etc., have 
appeared during the past seven years in various journals, among them 
“ United Presbyterian” ; “ Pennsylvania Grit”; “ Pittsburg Sunday 
Gazette” , “ Christian Union Herald” etc. We mention this fact here 
to obviate further necessity of specifying where and when these 
writings temporarily appeared in print. We have revised, in many 
instances, the text as it appeared originally, deeming this necessary 
before its issue in permanent form. 


w. H. R. 


AND OTHER STORIES. 


57 

“Whence comes this Peace, my cheerful friends ?” quoth I. 
The sweetest smile played ’round her mouth, and then 
The woman answered: “Sire, as. life goes by, 

We trust in Him, and earnestly we try 
To do no wrong ’gainst God or fellow-men.” 



THE GIRL FROM JOHNSON’S. 


Elizabeth Johnson — the latter by virtue of adoption — 
was a comely girl, and wayward. From a slumbering germ 
the latter had grown until it had become master, Elizabeth 
slave. 

“She’s a good girl — at heart,” said Mrs. Johnson. “Her 
mother before her was much the same, wilful and city-like 
in her ways. We girls used to call her “the queen”, she 
’peared so much different to the rest of us — what suited us 
didn’t suit her, an’ so on.” 

Mrs. Johnson’s caller smiled, and rocked steadily. 
Speaking or silent her chair had the same methodical swing, 
not varying an inch in the distance traversed. 

“What she needs is a good man, Mrs. Johnson; an’,” 
she continued, breaking the momentum for the first tim-' 1 
to pick a knot from some yarn, “I heard somebody say he 
an’ Samuel was about to be married.” 

“We did think so,” replied Mrs. Johnson, “but I guess 
Lizzie’s changed her mind.” 

The rocking had commenced again, but stopped abruptly 
that the listener might not lose a word of this original in- 
formation. 

“You don’t say! Well, Sam’s a good boy, if I do say it to 
his mother.” 

The door opened and the subject of this kitchen chat came 
in. She was a tall girl, well proportioned, and, as we have 
said, comely. She spoke pleasantly to “mother” and to 
“mother’s guest,” then went into an adjoining room. 

The window was open, and the girl drew a great easy chair 
beside it and sat down to write. Occasionally she stopped, 
and with the pencil point set between her lips, gazed out 
over familiar scenes. With her mind’s eye she looked into 


AND OTHER STORIES 


59 


those unfamiliar. On the morrow she was due to make the 
crossing from the serene into the more enticing but less peace- 
ful life. Its waters, for all she knew, might be chilly and 
dangerous; but the die was cast; Experience must be the 
arbiter of her destiny. 

The old life was fain, however, to relinquish its own 
without a struggle. A letter lay half written in her lap, 
its upper leaf tossed backward by the strong breeze blow- 
ing in from the waving fields, the darkening woods. Be- 
low her, on a trellis, some early roses nodded and bent. 

Elizabeth half closed her eyes, and her nostrils dilated 
to inhale the perfume wafting gratefully through the open 
space. From a distant field came the rapid click of a 
machine fast crawling over grassy roots. The aroma of 
the previous day’s cutting mingled agreeably with that of 
the roses, and the combined subtleties nearly stole away a 
resolve. 

She awoke from her half-conscious dreaming to find Sam 
at her side. But surprise was dead. To one living in air 
the earth were dull, commonplace, a good enough place to 
rest on when tired, but not to live in. She knew why he 
had come, and her heart smote her. She had led him to it 
by a hundred ways, and now she was bidding him go his 
way, alone. Not because she did not like him. As a man 
she had seen none better physically or morally. But 
the environment had claimed him. His ways, his manners, 
were not those of the youth who had “summered” there; 
his speech, his dress were in contrast, uncouth. 

“But,” whispered Reason, “he is a man; he holds in his 
strong arms, his pure mind, his temperate habits the best 
of the world’s wealth: content, and for you.” 

And the girl, neither affirming nor denying the latter 
clauses repeated: “He is a man.” 

From the wood-edge skirting the distant knoll came a 
“tinkle, tinkle,” as the Southdowns nipped at the tiny 
grass. Below in the environs of a small waterway Boss 


6o 


OUR BROTHER’S CHILD, 


and Susie twisted their long, rough tongues around equally 
rough, tall grass. 

* * * * ****** 

Sallie went to the station with the brass-knobbed trunk 
and the girl from Johnson’s. 

“Sam’s sorry he couldn’t leave the hayin’,” said Sallie, 
“but he said for you always to remember him as your friend.” 

Lizzie was silent, apparently engrossed in buttoning and 
unbuttoning the gun-metal gloves covering her hands. 
The buggy rose by slow degrees to an eminence overlooking 
Johnson’s spacious farmhouse. She twisted in her seat, 
and her eyes saw its newly painted pillars, running from the 
lower veranda to the upper, shimmering white in the sun- 
light. The black form of Mrs. Johnson lingered yet between 
them, watching through tear-dimmed eyes the girl who was 
going — after so long a time — out of her life into the unknown. 

Elizabeth turned and her own eyes were wet. Beside 
the buggy vines of wild berries grew in widening rows as 
they neared unoccupied patches of land. The noise of 
travel stirred from seclusion a startled rabbit, or from a 
fence corner flew a covey of quail. The distant, higher 
mountains looked dull and misty in contrast with the scin- 
tillating brightness of the lower lands. 

At the station Miss Johnson, the adopted, laughed rather 
hysterically as the train set out along the path whose end 
was the city, out through the groves of cotton-wood to higher 
plateaus where oak and walnut grew, and vice. 

“Come to town, sometime, Sallie,” she bawled, her hand- 
kerchief fluttering against her face, and the rush of increas- 
ing speed nearly drowning her voice. 

“Don’t forget to write, Lizzie,” returned the smaller girl, 
still gazing at the fast-waning coach, and gauging, in her 
simplicity, the lapse of time in which conversation becomes 
inaudible by the lumbering “demmycrat” or the more 
gracious buggy. 

It was many nights later when Sallie received from the 


AND OTHER STORIES. 


61 


village post the first letter from Lizzie. The milking call 
was sounding deep in the glade below Johnson’s as she turned 
into the lane leading from the highway. “Amoo!” it came 
over the still air, “Amoo! Amoo!” And from the dark 
woods cresting the knoll came an echo: “Amoo! Amoo! 
Amoo!” 

Samuel turned for a brief instant in the direction of the 
sound, then wheeled briskly. 

“Guess you’ll hev to wait awhile, Boss and Susie,” he 
muttered, striding in the direction of the lane. 

“Lizzie’s wrote a long one, Sammy,” cried his sister, 
springing to the ground. 

Johnson broke the seal and leaned with his elbow over 
the fence top the while he perused its contents. Sallie 
fastened the horse she had driven to a hitching post and 
waited. 

“Let me read it, Sammy,” she commanded, impatiently. 

“Wait, Miss Impudence, till I’m through,” he answered, 
tartly, still pondering over simple sentences. 

Later he gave her the letter, and silently went his way, 
a milking pail on each arm. A few minutes later Sallie 
and her mother were discussing the news from the city. 

“Every mountain’s white till we come to it,” remarked 
Mrs. Johnson; “but,” she added, somewhat sadly, “I’m 
afraid Lizzie’ll find some black spots when she comes close 
to ’em. I tried it when I was a girl about her age.” 

“But, mother,” broke in Sallie, “six hundred dollars a 
year and nothin’ to do but write — ‘copyin’ in a lawyer’s 
office,’ Elizabeth said. Goodness! that’s fifty dollars a 
month!” 

“An’ she’ll have t’earn it,” promptly replied Mrs. John- 
son. “City folks, lawyers nor no one else, don’t pay young 
women what they don’t earn, unless ” 

The elder woman was about to launch into an experience 
that had come into her own home, to leave sorrow for a 
family, and a broken life in its wake. Remembering the 
youth of her daughter she turned the subject. 


62 


OUR BROTHER’S CHILD, 


“Does Samuel know?” 

“Yes, he read it first.” 

‘What did he say?” 

Sallie had resumed her seat after placing her bonnet and 
several articles brought from the village in their respective 
places. 

“He didn’t say anything, mother; he went away as if he 
was vexed.” 

“That young man as was here got her the place, she says,” 
resumed Mrs. Johnson, reading from the missive lying in 
her lap. “An’ he’s workin’ in the same office.” 

She laid down the letter to let in a mother-cat that had 
left her brood for a moment, and was now on the wrong side 
— to her — of the screen door. 

“If Lizzie can see as far into human natur’ as Kitty an’ 
Towse I’m thinkin’ she’ll watch that young man,” continued 
Sallie’s mother. “Neither of ’em could abear him.” 

Sallie passed quietly into the wagon yard, leaving her 
mother still speaking almost inaudibly as she read the glow- 
ing description of the new life. The younger sons and 
Samuel returned some time later, to discuss the letter and 
Lizzie’s prospects from each individual point of view. 
The mother and Sam — older in years and experience with 
the world — were pessimistic; the younger ones took an op- 
posite view. 

Several weeks passed by without another letter from 
Lizzie. Sam, unvarying in constancy, love and respect, 
continued to send about once a week a letter full of sound 
reason as well as sentiment. With the latter he was not 
overburdened, but that he had was deep and genuine. 
His belief in humanity, and one girl in particular, would 
have been badly shaken could he have seen the cynicism, 
the picking of grammatical and rhetorical faults with which 
his letters were read, not alone by the recipient, as they 
sniffed over the desk, “to get a smell of the haymow.” 
Carefully worded and evasive were the letters he received — 
few as they were — and these gradually ceased. 


AND OTHER STORIES. 


63 

The first snow of November was lying thin upon the 
meadows when a letter came with a marriage license notice 
stating that Charles Wolfe and Elizabeth Johnson had se- 
cured a permit to marry. Sam himself got the letter, and car- 
ried it home unconscious of its contents, it being addressed to 
his mother. For weeks afterward he went listlessly about his 
work, slow of movement, dejected and heavy-eyed. But 
Spring brought renewed spirit. The wound, deep at first, 
was healing. During the Winter a few letters had come 
from Lizzie, but they conveyed naught of her life save to 
mention the fact — this was in the beginning of Spring — 
that she was compelled to give up her work. Later another 
came, this one to Mrs. Johnson, hinting at that the writer 
was afraid to put on paper. 

Nearly a month went by when one day there came a 
letter to Sam — the first to him individually since Lizzie’s 
marriage. Its words were few, but they burnt into the 
sturdy young farmer’s soul like sizzling iron. The city was 
not far distant, and thither he turned. 

He went rapidly to the village station, but the last train 
for the night was gone. From a livery nearby Sam secured 
the best saddle horse — the choice was limited, but in this 
instance proved a good one — and turned the animal’s head 
towards asphalt and electric light. He galloped with a 
savage, determined look overspreading his face, tucking 
tightly as he went a well-filled purse, and an old-fashioned 
but trusty weapon. 

Night was well on when he found her. He rapped gently 
at the door, and Lizzie — alone — opened it. 

“Sam!” she exclaimed, a furtive glance and a trembling 
voice telling of long-sustained fear and illness, starvation 
later doing its share to wreck the stout, rosy-cheeked girl 
of those other days, “I didn’t think my letter would — ” 

The young man held up his whip hand for silence. “We 
have your well-bein’ as much in our care now as if nothin’ 
had happened, Lizzie,” he assured her. “The only thing 
troubled us was that you hadn’t let us know before.” 


6 4 


OUR BROTHER’S CHILD, 


The woman sank weakly to a chair; Johnson seated him- 
self beside her. 

“Oh! Sam, how could I after the way I have — ” 

He stopped her, firmly. 

“Hush, Lizzie, no more about that” Then, turning 
toward an inner room, “Where’s your husband?” 

Mrs. Wolfe turned with a look of pathetic appeal in her 
face. She shrank as if already she felt the coming blows; 
her frail form trembled and her face, except in one or two 
places which were unnaturally yellow, became whiter than 
before. 

“He seldom comes home before two or three,” she an- 
swered. Then, quietly, she told Johnson a story of cruelty, 
undeserved jealousy — the latter simply the phantasmagoria 
of a wicked mind — and starvation such as is fortunately 
the lot of few. 

Johnson listened eagerly, his hand clutching savagely at 
an inner pocket. 

“Will you come back home with me ?” he asked at the end. 

Elizabeth laid her hand on his. 

“Don’t speak so loud, Sam, please, for my sake — and 
your own. Perhaps after baby’s born, things will be dif- 
ferent.” 

“Perhaps,” he acquiesced. 

Johnson had placed the money in her lap, and turned 
to go. 

“Hush!” She stood with her hand raised in the attitude 
of one intently listening. Her face blanched again; she 
whispered in an agony of terror: “That is his step! Fly! 
fly! this way,” and frantically clutched at his arm, pulling 
in an opposite direction from that he had entered. 

Sam was cool, collected, angry. He held back against 
her feeble strength. 

“Oh! Sam!” she pleaded, hoarsely, “for God’s sake — 
for mine, don’t!” 

Instantly he turned and went with her 


AND OTHER STORIES. 


65 

‘For your sake, Lizzie,” he muttered as he walked heavily 
down the steps leading to a rear yard. “Remember, let 
us know,” he admonished the trembling figure as he dis- 
appeared. 

Lizzie stepped noiselessly through the corridor to the 
front door. Wolfe was hammering in a manner that con- 
tinued would soon have burst it from its hinges. Shaking 
in every limb his wife turned the key and he entered, glar- 
ing angrily from besodden eyes. 

“Must have had company again,” he started, leading the 
way to a rear room. 

Lizzie did not answer. 

Wolfe stooped to an object lying beside the chair Sam 
had occupied. 

“H — 1! what’s this?” he exclaimed fiercely. 

He held aloft a short-handled riding whip. 

The heart of her at his side sank. 

“Who’s been here?” he shouted, the insanity of passion, 
jealousy and drink marring an otherwise handsome face. 

Mrs. Wolfe feared for the life of her savior. She re- 
mained silent, her lips firmly clenched, her brow knit. 

“By — I will know, or I’ll kill you !” exclaimed the frenzied 
man. “Tell me!” 

He caught her shoulder and wrenched her quickly round. 

“Tell me!” he repeated, “or by — I’ll strike you!” 

Wolfe held the whip menacingly above the cowering form. 
The last drop of blood receded from the woman’s face; 
her lips were blue with fear and pressure, but she flinched 
not as blow after blow descended. She sank weeping, 
pained, to the floor. 

Wolfe flung the whip to a corner and himself sat down. 
Exertion and a tumultuous mind had beaded his brow. 
He raised his hand and brushed the sweat aside. 

“This is h — 1!” he muttered, and the woman at his feet 
retorted truthfully, “Of your own making, Charlie.” 

Lizzie turned on him as she rose from the floor, a savage 


66 


OUR BROTHER’S CHILD, 


gleam 01 triumph lighting her eyes. The storm with him 
was over; with her begun. 

“This house — I can’t call it home — will shelter me no 
longer,” she said. “I’m going to-night, and forever, from 
you.” 

“Where?” he asked. 

“To those who will at least use me like a human being.” 
******** 

When Elizabeth had aroused herself from the lethargy 
of body and soul to make a feeble attempt to frustrate 
Death, the result seemed gratifying. She made more at- 
tempts, each succeeding one a more determined effort to 
live. She smiled sadly at the baby boy at her side, then at 
those around her. 

To Mrs. Johnson it was as one coming back to her from 
the dead. Death, in so far as concerned Lizzie, she had 
felt in her mother’s heart. But now the crisis was come 
and Life had triumphed. Instead of the injured being 
for whom there remained nothing for which to live she an- 
ticipated the future and saw again the once lovable 
Elizabeth. 

As she grew stronger, friends from far and near came 
in — for news travels fast in the country, and wide — to bring 
sympathy, cheer and little dainties their loving hearts sug- 
gested as appropriate and acceptable. Among them came 
Sam, firm in the decision that the future should hold better 
than the past for her. He had talked over his plans with 
his mother, and her encouragement had more deeply rooted 
his determination. 

When Lizzie sat in the capacious sitting room for the first 
time after her illness Sam was there. It was again June, 
and the window open as on another day. The same famil- 
iar scenes greeted her as she gazed out over the meadow- 
land, the rolling hills. The grazers beside the brook were 
four now; on that other day there were but two. Boss and 
Susie each had a miniature self by her side. On the crest 


AND OTHER STORIES. 


67 

skirting the woodedge the Southdowns — increased in 
number — wandered hither and thither, the tinkle of the 
leader’s bell sounding plainly to the listening mother. The 
new roses beneath the window caught her dilated nostrils 
in their familiar but agreeable embrace. The baby tried 
to turn on her lap, and Elizabeth came back from her 
sweet reverie with a smile parting her lips. The man, 
the woman each sat silent, each encompassed with the same 
thoughts, each daring not to give utterance He would not 
deny himself of her presence, yet it pained. He had said 
all a lover could say; now he must keep silence. 

Slowly to impatient hearts grind the mills of Justice. 

As Elizabeth lay quietly on the couch or in an easy chair, 
while the hours brought back slowly the tide of health, 
she became accustomed to Sam’s voice waking her from the 
dreams of girlhood and the half-conscious gazing into the 
emptiness of the future — as she saw it — for she knew not 
of the Law’s invocation. The day she knew, his earnest 
countenance — pale almost as her own from the stress of 
preceding events — caused her to cease wonder or to be sur- 
prised. Her womanly intuition could not misconstrue its 
meaning. 

And one day he came again — with another. 

“Will you sign your name to this testimony?” he asked, 
concluding. 

“With all my heart,” she replied, as tremblingly she 
wrote “Elizabeth Wolfe” at the foot of the prayer. 

And another day he came again — the man with the paper — 
this time another paper, bearing the seal of a great state, 
a populous county. 

“I congratulate you, Mrs. excuse me,” he corrected, 

quickly, “Miss Johnson, and you, too,” he said, turning and 
shaking hands with Sam. 

The latter handed Elizabeth a letter received among the 
mail. It bore the postmark of a western town. 

Overcome by fast-falling events she begged him to open it, 


68 OUR BROTHER’S CHILD, 

He did as she desired, then read it — to himself first 

“Me and Charlie have just saw the 
notice in a Pittsburg paper, but you 
needn’t gone to that trouble, he’ll never 
come to live with you and keep another’s 
child.” 

Sam threw the letter to the floor, and seized in his great, 
rough hands, the dimpled child and tossed it cooing to the 
roof. 

“There’s enough of his mother in him to hold our love,” 
he said, earnestly, as he laid it gently to its mother’s lap. 
“As far as his father is concerned he shall be ‘another’s 
child’.” 

The man with the paper turned to go. Elizabeth sup- 
ported by Sam, stood in the doorway to bid him Godspeed 
to his journey’s end: the county-seat. From behind them 
came a guggle, guggle, as a wriggling, cooing bundle did 
its best to roll off the chair; before them the red rays of a 
setting sun added intensity to the love-light in their eyes. 

The man with the paper was well down the lane, leading 
to the highway, when he chanced to peep from behind the 
buggy curtains. They were still in the door. From his 
pocket, he — the man with the paper — took a match, a case, 
and therefrom a cigar. A philosophic smile curved his lips 
as he bit at the twist on its end, and his hand trembled with 
a strange gladness as it brought the inanimate stick to a 
sizzling flame. 

“L’amour et la fumee ne peuvent se cacher,” he mut- 
tered, gazing complacently on a fragrant wreath. 


RESOLUTIONS. 


Man’s but a creature of the present hour. 

The great, long-drawn eternity that’s past— 

The wondrous length of time that is to come, 

Show but a tithe of God’s Almighty power. 

To-day is ours; 

The past, the future, both belong to Him 
Who with His might, weak, lowly us has made, 

And for our needs, the blossom and the rose, 

The fruit, the grain, the long, warm summer’s day 
With all its pleasures ’neath the spreading shade. 

The wintry blasts, the cold and drifting snow 
But increase man’s desire for balmy days, 

When feathered songsters on each leafy bough 
Resonant make the air with songs of praise. 

Oh, fleeting time! the summer comes too soon! 

Too prone are we to waste the present hour; 

The past mistakes are profitless, and loom 
Like giant forms with undiminished power. 

God help the weak and vacillating mind! 

Give strength to its resolves for future days; 

Teach us to live to-day as we would then , 

And when then comes we’ll have more cause for praise. 

And as we live, striving each day to do 
The best that in our way mayhap to fall, 

The truth imparts, that He, and He alone 
Can guide aright, let good or ill befall. 


7o 


OUR BROTHER’S CHILD, 


May reverence pure permeate each heart 
As day by day we toil in mart or mill, 

In mine or field, for, sweetly solemn thought: 
We do so only by His gracious will. 



INEQUITABLE “JUSTICE.” 

A* 

It is inconsistent with the high civilization of our time 
that “justice,” as we dispense it, should itself be criminal. 
Society, for its own preservation, rightly decrees that its 
member guilty of breaking the law shall be punished. But 
shall not society, exemplified in the compassionate feelings 
of humanity, draw around the innocent babe, the virtuous 
mother, the aged parent, a veil of obscurity sufficient to 
screen them from the vicissitudes, tempestuous often, in 
the criminal’s wake? Can the State consistently deprive 
the growing brood of its breadwinner without replacing the 
means of life? Is not protection of the innocent equally 
the mission of “justice” with the apprehension and crushing 
of crime? 

Is there not in your vicinity, in mine, a mother wearing 
away her life in an endeavor to keep hunger from gnawing 
the vitals of those she loves, or accepting the only alternative 
— pauperism — which, avoidable or unavoidable, brings to 
the sensitive mind pangs greater than death? “Justice” 
is not subserved by avoidable miseries entailed in its dis- 
pensation. On the contrary, it is evidently probable that 
further infractions of the law may be the sequence. 

A remedy? Compatible with his strength and ability 
give the prisoner remunerative labor. Divert the proceeds 
into the proper channel, that the dependents of him guilty 
of misdemeanor or felony may not suffer more than ostra- 
cism. The objective point of the labor enthusiasts — than 
among whom none, the present writer humbly begs to re- 
cord, is more desirous than himself that it be reached — will 
scarce be furthered by adding crime to crime. Much can be 
done, socially and politically, by the influence of you who 
are periodically convened to uplift directly the condition of 


72 


OUR BROTHER’S CHILD, 


labor, and indirectly augment the welfare of the Nation. 
Call it not idealism to revise the statutes and obliterate un- 
necessary cruelty from a sad duty. 

Even were it necessary the limit of this article precludes 
suggestion as regards the solution of such a problem. But 
means — practical, common, equitable means — suggest them- 
selves readily to the interested mind. The choosing of the 
best would alone remain were all else to that point. The 
sufferance of such a blot on civilization is tolerated only 
because of its obscurity; hence it remains for all who are 
well-wishers of their kind to bring to light this relic of bar- 
barism. 

Again we would say — at the expense of reiteration, per- 
haps, — punish the criminal! Inflict on him corrective 
discipline and even suffering commensurate with that he 
inflicted on society, individually or collectively, but spare 
the innocent retribution consequent on his misdeeds. 





RULE OF THE MOB. 


Is it possible that America cannot enforce the chief 
among the preambles of her constitution : That a man shall 
be adjudged only by his worth as a man; not by the color 
of his skin, the fullness of his purse, or the ravings of an 
insane mob? 

I believe she can. Current events would almost make 
one believe the bloodshed on innumerable battlefields 40 
years ago was shed in vain. In view of the spreading racial 
antipathy one would think the decision of the Civil War 
was a national curse instead of being what it should be, a 
harbinger of unity and peace. 

There are in the United States many elements of human 
nature — many races from many lands. Many of these 
are by nature excitable, and prone to override law in the 
exuberance of their anarchistic proclivities. A few such 
in an excited mob are like to a match lighted in a straw 
stack. It is this tendency, whether in foreigners or native 
born, that should be checkmated. 

Much depends on our judges and juries. They who 
allow the homicide or rapist to lie in prison two or three 
years before final punishment is meted out to them, are in- 
tentionally or unintentionally doing much to create public 
disrespect for law and order. It were well that conservatism 
prevail in the deliberations that mean life or death to a 
human being, but when the guilt is clearly established, 
the leaden heels should be removed from the shoes of justice. 
There have been many instances, no doubt, where the sum- 
mary vengeance of an indignant populace was manifested 
only after repeated miscarryings of the law in the locality. 
There have been, perhaps, many good citizens among the 
participants in such scenes; but as a rule such men are in 


74 


OUR BROTHER’S CHILD, 


the great minority where mob law reigns. It is the rowdv 
element — that composite, unprincipled gang to be found 
in all sections, and in number usually pro rata to the com- 
munity’s population — whose actions are to be feared. Its 
members have no more regard for the young or aged of 
either sex than they have for the victim, if so they happen to 
be of the same class or color. It is this element that would 
apply the torch to the home of the widow, the orphan or 
the white-haired, defenceless mother, if by accident of birth 
some brute called himself of the same name. It is these 
insatiable monsters that justice for law’s sake, and mercy 
for the sake of humanity, should stay in the act’s inception, 
and hold with such a grip that their hands would never 
rise again against the innocent. 





SCATTERING ROSES. 


As sower strews the grain o’er pregnant soil, 

So scatter thou the love that dormant lies 
Perhaps in a not quite unloving breast; 

Give to the dear ones sharing home and toil, 
Love’s silver lining of Life’s oft dark skies, 

Ere unrelenting Time brings its eternal rest. 

’Twill be too late then, for the kindly word — 
The fond embrace, the sweet, forgiving kiss — 
The helping hand to ease the tired arms; 

Too late to retract that which, like a sword, 

Cut to the heart: the word that came amiss 
In anger midst the stress of life’s alarms. 

’Twere better now to give a kindly word 
And rouse the depressed heart to joyful mirth; 
Helping to bear life’s burdens and be brave. 
Utter solicitude when ’t can be heard; 

’Tis better far than wreath of costly worth 
And shedded tears and roses o’er a grave. 



ENVIRONMENT. 


Aside from the promise of eternal life “to them that 
love and serve the Lord,” steadfast, faithful Christian service 
has many earthly rewards. 

We will take for instance two young boys, each inherently 
good and in the same position as regards worldly wealth, 
yet placed from childhood in different environment. Im- 
pressions inculcated and ideas formed at this time of life 
have a decided tendency to mould the entire future. 

One goes each Sabbath where morality, temperance and 
all that is good are constantly instilled in the youthful mind. 
He is two or three times each week in companionship with 
other young people following the same pathway of life — 
studying God’s word; devising means to help the sick and 
needy, and formulating plans for nobler and purer lives. 

As a general rule, young people of this class have a godly 
home and parents who strive to set an example good for 
their children to follow. Sometimes, however, the home 
and example are missing, which makes the youthful Chris- 
tian’s effort more commendatory, and the victory even 
greater. The harder the obstacles overcome in gaining a 
desired end, the more pleasure results therefrom. 

It is easy to trace such an one’s career to the place where 
time and eternity meet. We see him choose from among 
his girl companions one on whom is centered more affection 
than even the bonds of church fellowship demand — the 
dawning of love. We see them as equal partners in a home 
dedicated to God. We hear the morning and evening prayer 
and see, after a few years, tiny hands uplifted at the bedside 
and, while the mother’s hand lies gently on the tired head 
the lisping tongue repeats: “Now I lay me down to sleep.” 
Oh, the sacredness of that scene! What a contrast to the 


AND OTHER STORIES. 


77 


home wherein the mother cannnot spare time from the social 
function, the card party or the ball; where .perhaps the first 
environment of which the child has any conception is 
drunken surroundings, or, among the wealthier class, of 
being hushed into slumber by a nurse who perhaps never 
uses the Lord’s name except in vain. What more sacred 
scene than that pictured by Burns where “The priest-like 
father reads the sacred page.” Then when 

“The youngling cottagers retire to rest 

The parent pair their secret homage pay.” 

We see the baby boys and girls grow to manhood and 
womanhood while the silvered hairs get more numerous 
on the honored father’s and mother’s head. We see them 
exultant in the abundant love of their children and grand- 
children ere they depart, rich with faith and promises of 
God. 

Praises for their integrity and virtue, industry and sobriety 
are heard years after their demise. “Their deeds live after 
them.” 

Of the other competitor in the race of life only too often 
there is a different story to tell. True, there are exceptions, 
but they only prove the general rule. He starts with many 
things in his favor, we assume, chief among these being good 
health and a laudable desire to become a man, in every sense 
that the word implies. But there are around him many 
things which tend to debase and lead astray; influences 
which every parent should keep from children as they would 
deadly poison. The wine decanter occupies a prominent 
place on the dinner table; there are “parties” and of course 
progressive euchre being “harmless”, it is indulged in and 
followed by a parlor dance. The former engenders a desire 
for real gambling, and the latter, mingled with the wine, 
inflames the passions. The steps are gradual but sure, 
until they lead to a game “for just a nickle or two to make 




OUR BROTHER’S CHILD, 


it interesting.” The waltz and two-step are often fore- 
runners of libertinism. The wine gets too weak and whisky 
takes its place. The evenings and the Sabbath are given 
over to having “a good time with the boys.” The good 
qualities inherent at the start are soon smothered and' a de- 
based nature takes their place. The daily, yea hourly re- 
port of murder committed while the murderer was under 
the influence of liquor; of the suicides, while insane from 
delirium tremens; the police-court stories of abuse and 
cruelty of drunkards fo wives and children; the embezzle- 
ment by men ruined by champagne suppers, gaming with 
horses and cards and a desire to keep in style; these and 
many other instances are but inevitable consequences of 
bad environment and a weak nature. 

Oh the responsibility of parents in whose care God has 
placed earthly bodies and immortal souls! The awful 
crime of those who, in order to be “fashionable”, or by their 
example in other ways, start their own or other people’s 
children on the path, the end of which is eternal damnation! 



RENASCENCE OF THE SOUL. 


What! Mortal doubt renascence of the soul? 
Assuredly then walks he with eyes unused; 

Innumerable ways has Nature to unroll 
Her secret wrappings o’er the earth diffused. 

What! doubt a spiritual part of the great plan 
Whose magnitude makes human hearts to thrill, 

And shows the insignificance of Man, 

And all his science, genius and skill ? 

’Tis like to Winter which apparent death 
Brings to the foliage — each flower and tree 

Lies dormant, waiting only for the breath 
Of Spring to breathe new life — again we see 
The budding trees and vernal pageantry. 

Because man’s ears are closed — eyes cannot see 
How mighty oaks from little acorns grow — 

How works the power that causes it to be 
Yet does he doubt the fact that it is so? 

Could soul’s rebirth be other than the part 
To finish the Creator’s plan — make whole 

The wondrous work of which we see a part 
In nature — by renascence of the soul? 


“THE GENTLEMAN.” 


He knows not all the good his actions do — 

How fills the trembling soul with gratitude 
For the kind word — 

Who speaks with grace; nor how breaks forth anew 
The silent tears when th’ll-tempered mood, 

That like a sword, 

Cuts to the heart one sensitive and true 
To all the virtues that crown womanhood. 

L ’Envoi — 

The world, rough as it is, gives due respect 
To him who will 
Amid the strenuousness of life 
To Someone’s mother, daughter, wife 


The part fulfill. 



WHEN PASSING JUDGMENT. 

Be hasty not, nor stingy yet with praise; 

Give honor to him who has honor due; 
Remembering that men have different ways. 

Each looks at things from his own point of view. 

When one holds views contrary to one’s own. 

’Twere well to make allowance due for this—' 
Although his views you can’t at all condone 
He’s positive he’s right and you amiss. 



Copyright by “American Home”; Reprinted by 
their Permission. 

THE DOVE OF PEACE. 

When Dick Warner hung the diploma he had just re- 
ceived from Harvard, his desires were satisfied — so he 
thought. The four years he had put in at the University 
seemed an age. He had always been impatient to get off 
the farm, and when his uncle died, leaving the money that 
had given him the chance to attain what he had so long 
desired, he became still more impatient. 

But the long months of study wore away, and out of the 
final he came — a full fledged attorney-at-law. His way to 
a position was already open. Mr. Granby had offered him 
a partnership. 

He needed a partner badly, did Granby. There had 
grown within him, from infinitesimal proportions, a germ 
of gluttony, until it had reached the condition inevitable 
where it weighed heavily upon him. He had immolated 
the serenity of life’s eventide upon the shrine of a voracious 
appetite, and sat, mournfully cursing his fate while he gazed 
on an unsymmetrical pedal appendage set out on a level 
with his seat. 

Yet his practice was excellent. He numbered among his 
clientele the largest firms in the city. Dick thus found 
himself amidst plenty of work, but not enough to keep from 
falling in love. Within the first year he had married Helen 
Granby. 

The office was seldom visited by the senior partner, 
since he had found in Dick such an efficient substitute. 

The Warners had been married nearly a year, when, one 
day, a messenger was dispatched hastily to Dick’s office. 


AND OTHER STORIES. 


83 

“Come in!” Warner shouted, gruffly, in answer to the 
boy’s knock. 

“You’re wanted at home immediately, sir,” stammered 
the boy. “Doctor Bisbee is there, and — and — and some 
one else; I’ve forgotten the name they said, sir.” 

Dick knocked over a chair or two; dropped a few papers, 
which on other days would have been of great importance, 
but in the light of the present circumstances, were of second- 
ary consideration, and, with his vest and coat flapping un- 
buttoned in the wind, marched at double-quick to the 
Warner domicile. 

“Perhaps the gentleman — er — or — the lady forgot to send 
up their card, Jack,” he remarked, laughing, to the boy 
who was on a “dog-trot” at his heels. 

“Isn’t he a beauty?” asked Helen, with the pride a mother 
feels in her first-born. 

Dick had just lifted the counterpane from the chubby 
form that lay nestled in his mother’s bosom. 

“What shall we call him, dear?” he asked. 

“Richard, of course,” she murmured. 

Dick’s face clouded. Whether the name were an honor 
or taunt he felt undecided. Less than eighteen months 
previous, Richard Devere had stood an even chance of call- 
ing Helen wife. It took very ardent wooing on Dick’s part, 
as well as the balance of favor being cast on his side by the 
elder Granbys, to get Helen to decide in the young lawyer’s 
favor, and even then, the submission had only been half- 
hearted. 

Since their marriage they had seen nothing of Mr. Devere. 
He had gone to California in the interest of some property, 
some said: others attributed his departure from the locality 
to a different reason. But even with Devere in the West, 
Dick never felt that he had the full enjoyment of Helen’s 
love, albeit he loved her dearly. When the slightest dis- 
agreements arose, as they will do in married life, over the 
smallest trifles, she was wont to cast reflection upon Dick’s 


84 


OUR BROTHER’S CHILD, 


humble start in life. This, more than all else, cut him to 
the heart. He was striving every day to surround her 
with the luxuries she had been surrounded with since in- 
fancy, and these taunts, instead of decreasing his devotion, 
only made him more subservient to the idol of his love. 

Warner had gone but a few hours, one morning, when 
the servant brought Helen a card. A deathly pallor, for an 
instant, overspread her face; but gaining self-possession, 
she stammered, “Show the gentleman in, Mary.” 

“Your sudden advent gave me a decided shock, Rich — 
Mr. Devere,” she told her visitor, a few moments later. 

“I was on my way East, to Boston,” he replied, “I 
have some property there I want to turn into cash. I 
grasped the opportunity to see you, Mrs. Warner, and con- 
gratulate you. You know I wasn’t here when the happy 
event occurred,” he went on, catching at a corner of the 
shawl with which the wee bundle that lay on her lap was 
covered; “and now congratulations are due for two events, 
apparently.” 

She glanced up at him. 

“And Mrs. Devere?” she asked, coyly. 

He laughed heartily. “I haven’t found her yet, Helen — 
Mrs. — may I still say the old word ?” 

“You simpleton,” she exclaimed: from which ambiguous 
sentence, heard so often in the old days, Devere readily 
construed assent. 

“Have you seen Mr. Warner since you have been in 
town?” she inquired. For answer the man looked out of 
the window. His gaze rested on the desolation of slate roofs 
and chimney tops; his mind appeared to be absorbed, and 
Mr. Warner’s identity mixed in the absorption. It was 
evident that he still retained no small measure of animosity 
toward the man who had won Helen from him. 

“No; that is I have not met Mr. Warner — but — ” 

The woman looked at Devere, half smiling, and half 
angry. 


AND OTHER STORIES. 


85 

“May I see the boy?” he asked; turning his gaze and her 
question at the same time. Mrs. Warner proudly lifted 
the shawl. 

“I congratulate you, I do indeed;” but the man’s words 
sounded hollow. The ring of sincerity was lacking from 
the congratulation. 

“What do you call him ?” 

“We remembered you, and called him Richard.” 

“I’m honored greatly, Helen,” Devere replied, half sneer- 
ingly. 

She noted the pique in his tone. 

“Now, Richard,” she admonished, in the old, sweet way 
she had so often used before, “you know we always had great 
regard for you.” 

“If you use ‘we’ in the editorial sense, perhaps; otherwise 
>) 

“Did you say you had seen Dick — that is — Mr. Warner?” 
she interrupted. 

“In passing only. I had intended calling at the office 
to inquire about you,” he prevaricated, “but your husband 
was engrossed with Miss Densmore.” 

Helen winced under the sarcasm. Since Dick had under- 
taken the Densmore affair he had almost invariably stayed 
at the office until late into the night. The seemingly in- 
terminable length of the accounting wore harshly on Helen’s 
nerves and disposition. Many times since baby had been 
born she had reproached him. Poor Dick! He knew 
not that he was weaving not only a web of luxury around his 
fireside as he intended, but a mesh of gloom and sorrow. 

Devere, in spite of Helen’s entreaties, left before Warner 
came in. Studiously he avoided the man whose home he 
was wrecking. He came again and again; weaving more 
tightly around the woman’s susceptible mind the cords 
that were to bind her to his infamous plot. He had got to 
the point of boldness when he said, one afternoon: 

“I love you, Helen, better than Dick — er — Mr. Warner 
ever could,” 


86 


OUR BROTHER’S CHILD, 


“But,” Helen replied, in such a dubious tone that Devere 
was not rebuffed in the least, “that was before — ; Mr. 
Devere, you should not say that, now .” 

“But I do!” he exclaimed, half savagely. 

He took her hands in his, and she did not repulse him. 

“You know the madness, the folly that made you throw 
me over for — ” 

“Don’t!” she broke iff, abruptly. “We mustn’t remember 
that; I didn’t realize what it meant for me and — others.” 

“But it isn’t too late yet, Helen,” he urged. 

Helen looked down at the floor. 

“I cannot blame you for feeling so,” she replied, “but 
we mustn’t talk about it.” 

Nevertheless, he did. 

He drew his chair close, and gently put his arm around 
her, the innermost depths of his passionate nature showing 
plainly in his face. 

“Helen,” he resumed, “I have never loved but you; 
you have been my first and only sweetheart.” 

“But,” she murmured, “you could not have respect for 
me now, as if nothing had ever come between us.” 

“You mean — !” he started violently. 

Her head drooped. 

“I cannot explain to you just now, but tomorrow, per- 
haps.” 

“Tomorrow!” he muttered. “A little longer, and — .” 

It was nearly time for Dick to come. Should she tell 
all that Devere had told her, and have an explanation and 
understanding on both sides? 

No! A thousand times, no! Dick would deny the ac- 
cusation, anyway. Two could play at the same game, 
she told herself. 

Dick, frantic nearly from excess of work, rushed in a few 
moments later only to meet, if possible, a cooler reception 
than he had been accustomed to in the last few months. 
Supper over he kissed Helen and the baby, and went hack 
to sink into the oblivion of legalities. 


AND OTHER STORIES. 


The web was fast weaving. Devere had half sugge 
that Helen go with him. He talked winningly of the c 
before Dick came on the scene. He led her through 
woods with him again, and to the brookside where they 
gathered flowers together. 

Helen sighed deeply. Alas! the man’s words were « 
too true for the peace of mind of those directly interes 
Devere had been an ardent lover. Having no profes 
to absorb his time, his days had been spent almost exclusi 
in Helen’s company. Nature had not endowed him 
the manly beauty that graced his dashing rival, howe 
What Warner had lacked in lover’s ways he had cour 
balanced in physical prowess. He had fairly carried 
suit by storm, and won — for the time. But the woi 
hungered for the chivalrous attention her first love had sh 
her. She felt that life would be incomplete withou 
Could she make the sacrifice that it entailed ? 

With the alacrity born of desperation, Devere came 
the following day. Helen was dressed in a neat gray g( 
that he had often admired, but which Dick had detes 
Her pleasant manner and reception gave Devere deci 
encouragement, and led him to the point he had reac 
the day before, and beyond it. All the terms of endearm 
of which he was capable, he used; like the hypnotist, he t 
the weak point and made much of it. He took her ham 
his; his cheek was against hers; his hot and passior 
breath fanned her neck. Her head hung low on her br 
as the tempter whispered sweet nothings in the same t 
he had used years before. What was Dick to her, n* 
cold, dispassionate Dick who cared more for his books t 
all else. What were home and friends in comparisoi 
such love as this man breathed ? to be hers always if she 
willed ? 

Devere quivered with emotion as he drew her farl 
from the window into the shadows; still holding tightb 
her hand. 


OUR BROTHER’S CHILD 


)ne moment she lingered; her decision balanced — the 
'et, chubby boy, not Dick, holding her back. But it 
. only for a moment. Her desire for the man overcame 
dse. 

Yes,” she stammered, so low and faltering as to be almost 
udible. 

lut Devere was alert for the answer. 

'You sweetheart!” he almost shouted in his exultation, 
m, as the surging brain grew calmer, his voice modu- 
d to an exquisite tenderness. 

You will not turn — you mean it, really, Helen?” 
ler head nestled still on his bosom, while the conflicting 
jtions — good and evil — fought for mastery. 

It is not too late, yet,” she thought. Her mind reverted 
Dick — poor Dick — whom she had never loved as she 
,ht. Then the baby? What should she do with the 
•y? She loved him with all the ardent love of mother- 
id, but — . To take him with Devere might perhaps 
»en the latter’s love for her. Then, the boy would grow 
become a source of estrangement. He was Dick’s son; 
h Dick she would leave him! 

‘What makes you tremble so, love?” Devere asked. 
‘Nothing — only.” 

‘Only what, dear?” 

She looked over to the mantle. It was six o’clock and time 
• Dick to come home. 

\ rap at the door startled them. Devere partly arose 
grasped his hat; standing in a preparative attitude to 
ve. Mrs. Warner moved silently over to the cradle and 
ked it gently, although little Richard had for an hour 
n sound asleep. 

‘Come in!” she called tremulously. 

The door opened, and Mary handed her mistress a note. 
‘What is it, Helen?” Devere asked, as the sound of the 
I’s steps died away. 

A note from Dick. He can’t come home until near 
inight,” 


AND OTHER STORIES. 


g 9 

“Ugh! Some more mining business, I suppose,” he re- 
tored, sneeringly, but a glad tone permeating his utterance. 

A look of despondency and gloom overspread Helen’s 
face. She had been doubtful — but now positive assurance 
took possession of her. 

“When can we go?” she asked, almost as if talking to 
herself. 

Devere was alert in an instant. 

“Go! Do you mean to-night, — now?” 

“Yes”; admonishingly, “don’t speak so loud.” 

He took her to his breast again, and lifting her face up- 
wards, kissed her passionately. 

“Don’t, not now,” said she, pushing him away rather 
petulantly. 

She bent over the baby. From the foot of his cradle 
she took a shawl, the better to hide her indentity; and the 
night was cool. She dared not look at the child; even as it 
was her resolution wavered. But the die was cast; it was 
too late to turn. She cast a parting glance as she led the 
way gently down the carpeted stair at the rear. With a 
shudder she opened the door, and, arm in arm, they dis- 
appeared into the night. 

* * * ***** 

“For whom did you say?” 

“Mr. Warner.” 

“The United Company’s attorney?” 

“Yes sir.” 

The superintendent of St. Francis’ Hospital took down 
a large memorandum. On each page was inscribed the 
name of a nurse then on duty in the great institution, or 
who had passed into the outer life or the grave. 

“The best we have,” he mused. “Pretty hard matter 
where there is so much efficiency.” 

Beneath each name was concisely written a record of 
these angels of mercy, into whose hands were so often en- 
trusted the life of a fellow-mortal. 

The superintendent turned over several pages. 


96 


OUR BROTHER’S CHILD, 

“Miss Elizabeth Jones,’’ he read. “Admitted as patient 
in maternity. Oct. nth, 1884. Child born, and died Oct. 
12th, 1884. Entered service as assistant nurse in contagious 
ward, Nov. 1st, 1884.” The years following were marked 
with the various degrees of proficiency Miss Jones had at- 
tained in her profession, and, judging from the superintend- 
ent’s decision, it must have been highly satisfactory. 

He rang a bell. 

“Call Nurse Jones from the contagious ward,” he said to 
an attendant. 

The attendant ushered in a woman who, from a casual 
observation, one would have supposed to be in middle age. 
She wore the usual nurse’s cap and garb. But what struck 
one as exceedingly strange was an uncommonly large pair 
of blue goggles. Goggles they were, with meshed wire 
running to the eyebrows and underlids. These, with the 
gray-streaked hair, gave her a decidedly aged look. This 
was dispelled, however, on hearing her voice, which sounded 
silvery and youthful, although tremulous at times. 

“Sit down, please,” said the superintendent. 

The nurse took a chair. 

“A Mr. Warner has a severe case of scarlet fever in his 
family, Miss Jones, and has requested the services of a nurse. 
Will you go?” he asked. 

“Certainly,” she answered. 

“The message was urgent, so it were better that you 
start immediately.” 

The nurse rose, and the superintendent handed her a 
slip with the patient’s address written thereon. 

The woman turned pale, but with the self-control prac- 
tised constantly in her profession, she mastered a strong im- 
pulse to collapse, and walked slowly to the carriage await- 
ing her. 

At the Warner home, tossing in the delirium of fever, 
lay a boy about ten years of age; by his side a physician. 
The nurse handed the latter a note. 


AND OTHER STORIES. §t 

“Yes; take a -chair,” he said, without looking up. “The 
symptoms have fully developed,” he went on in a subdued 
tone: “Mr. Warner and all others must be prohibited from 
entering until the crisis be passed.” 

The woman took off her outer garments, and stood ar- 
rayed in trim, clean linen, the insignia of nursehood. 

“Remember, you are in charge,” admonished the physi- 
ician as he went out. 

For three days and nights the child’s life hung in the bal- 
ance; the anxious father inquiring every few minutes the 
progress of the disease. “His life depends on Miss Jones,” 
the doctor had told him. “Yes,” he had answered in reply 
to a question from Mr. Warner, “she is the most efficient 
St. Francis’ had, and I must confess, the best I have ever 
seen in this disease.” “Perhaps we had better get an al- 
ternate,” the attorney suggested; “will not the constant 
strain be too much for one alone?” “She has refused my 
suggestion to that effect,” replied the doctor. “In a way 
it is fortunate that she is willing to have the case alone, until 
— .” The physician broke off abruptly, and Mr. Warner 
turned away. 

“Until!” What if it were death? Dick was all he had 
in the world to care for now. Of his wife he had never 
heard nor made inquiry. When he had come home and 
found none but the cooing boy to greet him he had been 
stricken as if dumb. The affair had embittered his whole 
life; redounding to a certain extent on those with whom he 
came in contact. When he returned to his desk the follow- 
ing morning, the cheerfulness of the office boy had filled 
him with envy. A hasty lunch at a restaurant nearby, 
always repellant, to-day seemed more so; the choice after- 
dinner cigar failing in its usual surcease to ruffled tranquill- 
ity. The boisterous mirth of the groups around him 
suggested the question: Why this merriment with the world 
so dark ? It was hard for him to realize that he alone was 
behind the clouds. 


^ OUR BROTHER’S CHILD, 

“But,” he meditated, “he had Dick; the world was not 
all darkness.” 

The poignancy had worn away with the advancing years. 
Dick, the prototype of a mother he knew only as dead, 
was growing into a fine, manly fellow; the pride and joy 
of his father’s life. And now — . 

The two succeeding days, freighted as they were with the 
deepest anxiety, passed wearily away; but at length the 
crisis was past; the boy would live! 

“You had better rest, now, Miss Jones,” urged the physi- 
cian. 

“No;” she replied, with spartan fortitude, “not until 
he is absolutely safe.” 

“You feel better, now, Richard?” she asked, quietly, 
smoothing his pillow, that he might rest easier. 

The patient turned feebly. The struggle with death 
had well nigh been in vain; but the nurse, knew with a 
warmth of feeling she had never felt for a patient before, 
that the \yorst was over. 

A step sounded without and the door opened. The tall 
figure of Mr. Warner stepped gently to the bedside. 

“Are you better, now, son,?” he asked. 

“Some — better — Dad,” the boy replied. 

The man stepped over to the window. 

“Thank God!” he murmured. 

Long he stood gazing over the city. The mellow radiance 
of* a harvest moon cast melancholy lights and shadows 
into the apartment. The jet, owing to the ill effect on 
Dick’s eyes, was very low. Wistfully the attorney looked 
and looked. So quiet were the surroundings that the tick 
of his watch was audible. Where, he wondered, was Helen, 
to-night? Would she come if she knew Dick was ill? In 
vain he tried to think of other things, but somehow the old 
love was strong. He had never for a moment blamed her. 
That Devere had wielded some evil influence over her he 
never doubted. A voice from the bed roused him from his 
reverie. 


AND OTHER STORIES. 


93 


“Are you still there, father?” asked Dick. 

“Yes, my son; anything you want?” 

The boy turned completely over, the moon making his 
face still more deathlike. 

Mr. Warner stepped toward the bed. 

“I saw mother, while I slept.” 

The man smiled, rather unmirthfully. What if the boy 
was in delirium, again, and taking a turn for the worse! 

“His mind’s wandering again,” he said, turning to the 
nurse. 

The latter had risen and walked staggeringly to the door, 
and down the passage leading to the rear. 

Mr. Warner stepped gently after her. 

“Nurse!” he called, but received no answer. 

The maid, bearing a supper tray, came along the hall. 

“Sit with Dick, a minute, Annette,” he said; “Nurse is 
ill, I believe. The long strain has been too much for her.” 

He went quickly to the hall-door, where, lying at full 
length he saw his wife. The cap and goggles, which had 
served their purpose so well, lay some distance from her, 
where she had, in a mad impulse, thrown them; evidently 
intending leaving forever the presence of the husband and 
son she had so bitterly wronged. But nature had frustrated 
her plans. 

“Annette! Annette!” Mr. Warner called as loudly as 
he dared for fear of alarming Dick. “Bring me some 
brandy and water, quick!” he whispered. 

Briskly he rubbed the hands that years before to hold 
within his own had been one of the greatest pleasures in life. 

The maid returned with the stimulant. 

“Quick — there!” he urged, as she poured it out. 

His efforts were rewarded by signs of returning conscious- 
ness. He sat with his arm around her; her limp form 
lying against his breast. His Helen! How he longed to 
kiss her; to forgive the past, and love her as he had done 
once — in the long ago. Then the wrongs he had suffered 


94 


OUR BROTHER'S CHILD, 


would suige to his brain, and a feeling of revulsion try hard 
for mastery, only to shift instantly from Helen to Devere. 
Him he could never forgive; but should he drive her from 
him, or let her go, the repentant nature she had shown 
might give way to desperation, and then — . Then had she 
not paid the penalty for her misdeeds? Those gray hairs, 
that had grown so abundant among the brown, had not 
come by happiness. If she had wrecked his life, had she 
not made restitution by saving Dick’s? Try as he would, 
he could not forget, but he could and would forgive. This 
was plainly his manifest duty. 

Helen gently opened her eyes, and, as quickly as she saw 
him, turned them away. 

“Are you better, Helen?” he asked, as he helped her to a 
chair. 

“Oh, Dick!” she stammered; “can you forgive?” 

H© took both her hands in his, and kissed her. 

“Yes, dear; and life being long before us, with God’s help 
we will endeavor to forget.” 



PRESENT DAY REWARD FOR CHRISTIAN 
SERVICE. 


“So live, that when thy summons comes to join 
The innumerable caravan, which moves 
To that mysterious realm, where each shall take 
His chamber in the silent halls of death, 

Thou go not, like the quarry slave at night* 

Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed 
By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave.” 

Bryant. 

Our colleges are giving to the world, for good or ill, 
great numbers of young men and women deep learned in 
theoretical knowledge gained in the institutions they are 
leaving — leaving for the greater school in which theory 
must be changed to practice. Indecision, doubtless, 
disturbs many. Art, literature, music, fame, in the special 
sphere to which some, perhaps, are drawn by nature and 
environment, or a measure of worldly wealth, dominate 
each several mind; but withal, there doubtless mingles a 
laudable desire to do good — for themselves, and their fel- 
low-men. Happily this trait of human nature is more 
diverse than the pessimist would have us believe; but, in 
youth, especially, there is ever present danger of Ambition 
predominating, and sinking into insignificance desire it 
were well to cherish. There remains the portentous pos- 
sibility of the “new life” encroaching on those sacred hours 
which were better given to self-analysis, congenial commun- 
ion, humility and worship before a benevolent God. 

We speak, with well-deserved condemnation of the ball- 
playing, crap-shooting, picnicing desecrator of the Sabbath; 
yet while we scrutinize our brother’s mote it were well we 


96 


ODR BROTHER'S CHILD, 


look closely that we, ourselves, do not harbor the greater 
beam. Have we no foible equally deserving of criticism? 
Oh, that we felt to the full its unstable qualities! We may 
attain Eminence, from whose throne we see grovelling, 
aspiring others synonymous of action with us years past. 
Our name may be weighty in affairs of men, — while we 
live — but the world soon forgets. It has ever been and ever 
will be. Each deed of kindness, each act of love, is a stone 
in the upbuilding of that which dieth not as the grass. 

The historian may write of us as doing something for 
science, art, literature, but the newer, ever-coming tide of 
humanity demands that other things be written; other and 
newer questions discussed. Men strive for the better part 
of a lifetime — endure all the vicissitudes men can undergo — 
to attain a coveted object, reaching it, in the greater number 
of instances, just in time to lose it. Almost before they have 
tasted of its sweets, they are ushered into oblivion, as far as 
this world is concerned. 

“The gay will laugh when thou art gone, 

The solemn brood of care plod on, 

And each one as before will chase 
His favorite phantom.” 

Apropos of this unsubstantial composite which we call 
life, as delineated in the several elements composing the 
physical whole, we may profitably dwell on the opinion of 
a Mind, greater, perhaps, in its day, more comprehensive 
in its grasp of the abstract, deeper and wider in true measure- 
ment, and more capable of fully weighing the concrete 
than any of its contemporaries: Thomas Carlyle. He who 
had weighed each human thought and action throughout 
a life deep delving into such things, found all wanting; 
none conducive of peace, save those simple, earnest lessons 
learned at a mother’s knee. Blessed simplicity! From the 
unrealities of manhood he must needs turn back the pages 


AND OTHER STORIES. 


97 


of Time and become again a child before finding aught on 
which to rest in age! 

How much less true to appearance must we find these 
glittering flames to which are drawn — as human moths — 
we who have scarce touched the edge of these glistening 
spears of worldly light! 

God forbid that these words should swerve from a worthy 
aim any whose eyes may peruse them. Such, indeed, is 
far from true intention. May they never cause diversion 
from an honest, virtuous, pleasure; but may they teach 
that worldly things are not all. We mention this lest mis- 
construction be placed on the foregoing. 

We may, so long as life lasts, aspire to perfection in any 
community or ourselves with small hope of realization; 
yet we can each do as best he may to bring as near as pos- 
sible this ideal. Our example has effect on those with whom 
we are in contact, greater than we sometimes believe; evil 
or good often follow in the footsteps of a trivial circumstance, 
for ourself and others. 

Ever with the poet we will “pine for the perfect and still 
find the false with the true.” He looked “midst the human 
for heaven, and caught a mere glimpse of its blue.” Over- 
come, he “wept when the clouds of the mortal veiled even 
that glimpse from view.” 

There are many times in one’s life when “the clouds of 
the mortal” veil the blue of heaven. But some day this 
obliteration will remove: some day these clouds will rise: 
some day we’ll understand those mysteries that now per- 
plex us : some day, if we do our part, that veil shall be lifted 
and the glories of another life open before our eyes: the 
musical ear shall be thrilled with symphonious music of 
an immortal choir : the eye that on earth loved and delighted 
in the beautiful shall be bewildered with the sights that greet 
it — scenes such as canvas ne’er portrayed. Thus will it 
come to us, if we will it so, in due season — in God’s own time. 


RING, JOYFUL BELLS. 


Ring, joyous bells! Your gladsome message ring 
Tell Earth’s great hosts of men in tuneful lay: 
“Glad tidings of great joy to you I bring; 

The Christ is bom in Bethlehem to-day.” 

Ring, joyous bells! The shepherd’s watch by night 
Was followed by all time’s most welcome dawn. 
The angel herald in ethereal flight 

Told wondrous news: “The Prince of Peace is born. 

Oh! welcome words! boon to a world of sin — 
Chaotic world to which is bid: “To cease 
Its unbelief, its ever-warring din, 

And man with man to live in love and peace. 



GLADNESS. 

Cultivate gladness and thy soul shall be 
Full to o’erflowing — untold joys be thine; 

Nor gold nor lands can like Serenity 

Ease the sharp pangs that are caused by Time. 

Like blithesome songster on the bending bough 
Trilling sweet praise for just a chance to live, 

Heeding its lesson, yet depressed art thou? 

Much more is thine for which thou canst praise give. 

LOf€. 



THE RE ADJUSTMENT. 


Accept my offering pure and lovely maid; 

With contrite heart I bring, sweetheart, this sign- 
My love but slumbered and from anchor strayed — 
Accept it and me as thy valentine. 

To the west of Bryton village, Dave came in sight of the 
woods encircling the quarry. Through all the turmoil of 
harnessing the cantankerous hybrid he rode he had sub- 
consciously felt the coming importance of the day’s mission. 
He was in a joyous mood as he turned Pete into the road- 
way leading direct to the engine room, his face turning full 
in the instant to the broadening light. Clouds floated and 
burned in the carmine-colored flames shooting intensely 
in the eastern sky, but in the west the cumulus masses 
looked cold and gray, still drenching in their slow passing 
the villages beyond Bryton. 

The symphony of “the quarter-to” ceased as Dave dis- 
mounted and gave the animal rein to wend his way alone 
along the muddy avenues. He watched the shimmering 
light glint from the animal’s coat, and with a smile of com- 
placency turned to speak to a companion. 

Dave was proud of Pete. Among six of his kind he was 
the acknowledged champion. He could kick higher, 
quicker, and with less provocation than any mule in the 
company’s service. But he was a good and willing worker, 
sleek of coat, and nimble, which facts offset his bad qual- 
ities. 

An hour later Pete was pulling two newly-cleaned cars, 
the bottoms covered with fresh hay. Dave turned him from 
the siding onto the main and stopped. A bevy of young 
women came laughing immoderately at the strange and 


AND OTHER STORIES. 


IOI 


incongruous surroundings. One of them, dressed in a light- 
colored frock, daringly walked between the close- jutting 
bank and the wagons’ sides, thence suddenly to Pete’s 
flank. 

Instantly the animal’s feet went up, thrice in rapid suc- 
cession. The impellent of his action shrieked and sank to 
the muddy ground; the others retreated in the direction 
they had come, each shouting her fear in harsh crescendo. 

Dave had been arranging the wagon beds in a more com- 
fortable condition for his fair passengers; the young woman 
had passed without his notice. A youth accompanying the 
three ladies stood motionless, petrified apparently by in- 
decision and fear. 

Pete had started again. After the first fusilade he had 
stopped for one brief moment, just long enough to note the 
cause of his anger lying at his feet. Her body was closer 
than he desired. Had she moved forward or backward 
Pete would have ceased instantly. Instead his front feet 
took a firmer grip, the bright iron covering of his hind ones 
glinted quick reflections of the glowing light. 

The girls continued to shriek, the youth waved his arms 
wildly. Dave scarce heard anything or anybody. He 
moved quickly forward and dropped face downward on the 
thick mud. The sudden contact with gathered slime, un- 
did in a, moment, what he had been long in arranging for 
this special occasion : a clean working suit from cap to boots, 
embellished by a spotted kerchief beneath his throat. 

The clean-shaven handsome face raised an instant later, 
distorted as much with passion as by the trickling semi- 
liquid clay. But Pete had stopped. The cause of his 
wrath lay limp in Dave’s arms. 

“The young lady’s not hurt, I don’t think,” the driver 
assured her companions, an unusual quaver in his voice. 

“Allow me to help you,” came a voice at Dave’s elbow. 

The latter turned and staggered beneath his burden, and 
for the moment forgot the presence of refined company. 


102 


OUR BROTHER’S CHILD, 


“Aw, go to h — 1,” he gave with a voice yet more quaver- 
ing than at first, as answer to the proffered aid. Then 
quickly, “Unhitch and turn the — the — ” 

His voice had failed him; his legs shook and the sky sud- 
denly became blurred. Slowly he sank to the ground; his 
head rested across the iron rail; the light-colored dress hung 
not more limply than the form across his knees. 

* * ****** 

Bryton was not unused to accidents. For a quarryman 
to be brought from the man-made abyss with the light of life 
forever gone — shattered by crushing strata, torn by a pre- 
mature blast or one too long delayed — this was usual. But 
the accident to Dave was unusual. It and its consequences 
had been the theme of more conjecture, more gossip among 
the maids and matrons of the village than anything since 
the first foot of dirt had been thrown from above the granite. 
Not that the type of accident was unordinary, but the fact 
that the young woman from New York" had persisted in 
helping to nurse the quarryman^back to that point when 
he could again'snip Pete’sYar'with whipcord and step from 
right to left with sufficient agility to escape the iron heels — 
this also was unusual. It was also hinted, with what truth 
we cannot say, that Miss Sutliff had denied the youth ac- 
companying her the desired privilege of staying in the 
neighborhood, until she should elect to return to the city. 
Rumor had it that he had been used coldly, if not uncivilly. 

Hence the numerous conferences of Bryton ’s housewives, 
and the whispered surmisings by the maids as to the ultimate 
effect on the relations existing between Dave and the quarry- 
blacksmith’s daughter Mary. 

Mrs. Bowen and Mat McKenzie’s wife settled the matter 
in a very satisfactory manner — to themselves. Each worthy 
matron stood on her own lot, albeit but an inch hemlock 
picket divided their rotund forms. 

“I’ve got me last loaf in the hoven,” ventured Mrs. 
McKenzie, as excuse for sidling along the nearer to approach 


AND OTHER STORIES. 


103 


her neighbor. The latter had just put down two large 
buckets of water. 

“An’ I* ve got my last boiler of clothes on,” beamed the 
neighborly Mrs. Bowen. “I’m gettin’ this for rinsin’.” 

Mrs. McKenzie hitched a little closer. 

“Did you hear how Davy was this mawin’?” 

Mrs. Bowen loosened from their clinging grip skirts wet 
through contact with bedewed grass. “This is my last 
washin’ for Davy’s mother. She told me the doctor says 
Davy’s lungs is almost well.” 

“His lungs,” echoed Mrs. McKenzie; “I thot it was his 
ribs.” 

Mrs. McKenzie was quite as well posted as regarded 
Davy’s illness as her neighbor, but for a reason the subtlety 
of which is known only to the feminine portion of humanity 
she feigned ignorance. 

Mrs. Bowen assumed the important air of one imparting 
original information. 

“Why Mrs. McKenzie the boy had one of his lungs run 
through and through!” 

“You don’t tell me?” 

“Sure; an’ it come near causin’ gangrin or gangrene or 
some such disease the doctor said.” 

Mrs. Bowen bent to lift the buckets, but straightened up 
at Mrs. McKenzie’s asking, “An’ is the gurl from New 
York there yit?” 

“She was when I brought up the washin’, this mornin’.” 

Mrs. Bowen again bent to the buckets. Her mind was 
evidently still at work on the conversation, for she imme- 
diately put them down to the ground. She turned again to 
her neighbor. 

“Her father’s come to take her back.” 

“Her father?” 

“Yes; him as is partner with Jamison.” 

“Sutliff?” 

“That’s the name,” smiled Mrs. Bowen. Then, “Miss 
Sutliff is takin’ Davy along with her to recooperate.” 


104 


OUR BROTHER’S CHILD, 


“Well, saints above!” gasped Mrs. McKenzie. “An’ 
I wonder if Mary’s goin’?” 

Mrs. Bowen sighed. In that sigh her matronly heart ex- 
pressed fear of a romance broken. 

“Poor Mary,” she said, “she’s broken-hearted. Davy’s 
hardly spoke to her lately, an’ she takin’ turn about nursin’ 
him.” 

A wee voice from the lot end gave momentary pause to 
the discourse. “Mother!” it called, and again, “Mother! 
the bread’s burnin’!” 

Mrs. McKenzie made a step toward the burning bread; 
Mrs. Bowen lifted for the third time the pails from her 
sides, and for the fourth time put them down again. 
Clothes sizzled and sputtered in a well-dried boiler, and the 
rank aroma of burnt soap suds mingled with the smoke 
rolling low from the crusher. Mrs. McKenzie leaned still 
farther over the dividing picket. 

“An’ do yer serpose, Mrs. Bowen,” she whispered, “that 
Davy’s got ter — ter thinking anythin’ o’ that gurl what’s 
bin nursin’ him?” 

The other woman reflected as one not positive of what 
she was about to say. 

“Mary looks thinner and more werried than what’s bin 
done by nursin’ Davy, Mrs. McKenzie, or else signs don’t 
count — Sh! there’s Mary now!” 

A young woman, fair of features, agile as a fawn, passed 
close by the women, along a path bisecting the lots ex- 
tending from the rear of the row. True she was pallid of 
face, but it only added to her beauty. The night before — 
the whole twelve hours — she had spent at the bedside of him 
whom to her was dearer than life. This was to be her last 
night. She had begged a lone vigil, unshared by either 
Davy’s mother or the girl from New York. 

Davy was able to be moved, so said the country doctor. 
In a sumptuous city office a specialist already awaited his 
coming. Much yet remained to be done ere Davy assumed 


AND OTHER STORIES. 


105 

the athletic step, the quick, passionate glance, the dare- 
devil spirit characteristic of the days that were past. To 
this end had Miss Sutliff interceded with a father who de- 
nied her nothing, and with an infatuated youth, who saw 
in her all the womanly virtues possessed by Mary, and in 
addition ways of speaking and grace of carriage the un- 
sophisticated girl knew not of. Miss Sutliff had, moreover, 
replied with brevity to long epistles from one who, before 
these later days, had been her idol at Love’s throne. Her 
conception of the idol’s worth had received a setback by 
an unfortunate incident, and a still more unfortunate ab- 
sence of mind. Sarah Sutliff thought her city lover a 
coward. 

Thus it came about that Davy moved for a while in the 
outer space of heaven, blind to the real possessor of its key. 

Two weeks had passed. The specialist suggested sea 
air from close contact. The following day the Sutliff ’s, the 
young man who lacked daring, and Davy were aboard a 
small sailing craft. 

Afar in Vermont’s hills, a young woman pined and faded. 
Long letters and often had hardly been noticed, although 
Davy was well able to write both as regarded convalescence 
and education. Two only had he retained — the last re- 
ceived before going aboard the yacht. He had read and re- 
read them; something he had not done before. 

Several times Miss Sutliff, seated at a distance, reading, 
caught his glance moving from the epistles to her and back 
to the letters. 

Much began to obtrude itself into Davy’s mind; the deep 
thought and sound reason of Scotch-Irish ancestry ran still 
and deep below the rippling exuberance of youth. For the 
first time in his life he felt conflicting, tumultuous emotions, 
his will, for the time unanchored, swayed hither and thither 
by each succeeding thought. He saw the rolling hills, the 
green dales his feet and hers were wont to tread; the long 


io6 OUR BROTHER’S CHILD, 

walks with a red-cheeked, vivacious girl with cashmere-cov- 
ered shoulders — the toilet he had praised. He saw the neat 
home — his home — scrupulously clean in spite of surrounding 
dirt. He saw Mary greeting him as he came home from 
the quarry, to lie, tired but contented, basking in the light 
of her simple graces. He locked into futurity and played 
on the green patch in front of his home with Mary’s baby — 
and his. 

In another he saw himself the victim of gratitude; for he 
was not too young or too deep in real or imagined love to 
lack conversance with the fact that much of Miss Sutliff’s 
attention had for parentage the natural liking of girlhood 
for a handsome face, and the impulsive adulation of the 
hero. He anticipated and saw himself the useful billet of 
steel amid the gilded ornaments of Life’s jewelry shop. 
And the tumult raged. 

The young man who lacked presence of mind paid Davy 
attention one would hardly expect from a rival. He saun- 
tered toward the mid-deck where the latter and Miss Sutliff 
were seated. He stood over the chair in which the sick 
man reclined and replaced as tenderly as a woman a cover 
that had become dislodged. 

Davy was paler than usual; his eyes were closed, but not 
in sleep. His companion sat apparently oblivious of the 
scene before her; but if her eyes were elsewhere her ears 
were whetted. 

Roetsen took a chair beside Davy. 

“Shall I get you a — a — something to settle your stomach ?” 
he asked kindly, his practised eyes noting the pallor on his 
companion’s face. 

Davy opened his eyes and looked somewhat sorrowfully 
over the blue expanse into which the boat was heading, then 
back at the diminishing landline and sighed. In that sigh 
he longed for abysmal depths — but not liquid — with Pete 
to entertain by his harmless stunt — when light-robed girls 
were otherwhere — and Mary. A sentence he had heard 
before roused him from his reverie. 


AND OTHER STORIES. 


107 


“Allow me to — ” 

And at the words Davy — who was apparently so sick 
from the effects of the boat’s motion as not to notice Roetsen’s 
previous question— turned sharply. Something— he could 
not have given it a definition — filled him with remorse and 
pity. Roetsen, too, noted the repetition, and a flush akin 
to shame crossed his face. He rose and returned with a 
glass of brandy and soda. Davy drank eagerly, and felt 
relieved. 

The men chatted amiably. The reserve of the quarry- 
man — engendered mainly by disrespect of anything savoring 
of cowardice — was fast disappearing before the convicting 
force of mitigating circumstances. For an hour Roetsen 
sat and entertained him with tales of voyages taken on his 
own — his father’s — yacht. Davy grew deeply interested, 
for the recital bore the earmarks of truthfulness. 

The landline gradually became invisible; the yacht 
wheeled for the return. Davy had gone to lie down. On 
deck all was bustle. A cloud, a half hour before not larger 
than a speck, had grown to momentous proportions, and 
was sweeping inland with the force of a tornado. 

For three hours the storm raged. The passengers, ex- 
cepting Roetsen, sat fearful and silent in the cabin. The 
howling of the wind among the lines, the shouts of men 
filled Davy’s heart with an oppressiveness he had never 
before experienced. He sat glaring at the small windows, 
wondering how long the battering water would be gaining 
an entrance. Without men speculated as to the length of 
time the inevitable would be delayed. Despite their utmost 
efforts the yacht swerved resistlessly from its course and 
landward. “Reef down! Reef down!” had been sung so 
often that not a sail flapped from mast or line. But the 
effect remained unaltered. The hatch over the companion- 
way was closed, the men all huddled in the skipper’s cabin, 
the wheel lashed. 

Like a horrible wail the shrieking wind amid the lines, 


10B OUR BROTHER’S CHILD, 

and the raging, pounding water filled with dread the souls 
of the listeners. The sea had swept clean the deck. The 
spars and main rigging alone remained. 

Impotently the skipper vented his oaths; the crew with 
blanched faces turned their gaze landward. 

Higher than the noise of storm came the boom of a gun ; 
another; another! 

But in vain did the cry of powder call the crew of the 
Merrivale to beach whither they would. With a rocking, 
twisting motion the vessel made her last quivering lunge. 

Roetsen and the skipper were first to their feet. The 
latter seemed dazed and incapable of grasping the full im- 
port of the calamity. Roetsen turned, his face white but 
firm. In a moment the pampered youth had undergone 
a metamorphosis and become the commanding man. With 
upturned finger he pointed to the rigging. To one of the 
sailors, a brawny Swede, who, despite his size was possessed 
of agility equaling a feline, Roetsen shouted: “You, Ander- 
son, take the young woman!” He pointed quickly to two 
others in whose care he gave Miss SutlifFs parents, leaving 
Davy as his own charge. 

The vessel rolled wildly as the rising breakers renewed 
their onslaughts. The swaying mast bent and jerked, 
threatening at any instant, to displace from its sides the 
clinging men and almost unconscious women into the seeth- 
ing vortex. 

Again, above the voice of the wind, came a dull boom; 
its sound an epic of hope for the death-frenzied mortals 
clinging to the rigging. Courage, almost dead, revived; 
loosening fingers tightened. 

But the shot had failed! 

Despairing groans, mingled by some with imprecations, 
greeted its failure. 

Again came the welome sound, and at the same moment 
a rift in the storm showed to desperate eyes the oilskin 
covered forms. The shot, deviated by a huge breaker, cast 


AND OTHER STORIES. 


109 

the line astern, to wriggle and lose itself amid the foam. 
Each roller seemed to the despairing watchers a boisterous 
aid to inflexible Death. Like a huge animal endeavoring 
to rid itself of noxious company the vessel shook and 
twisted. From varied heights the winds carried heaven- 
ward inarticulate prayers to God. 

And still they clung and waited. 

It came at last, the successful shot, and fastened itself 
on the bare and breaker-washed boom. With a swishing 
whirl it coiled and became taut. It showed thin and frail 
when for a moment the vortex opened, and to the downward 
gaze brought no hope. No man could walk the deck awash 
with several feet of water; what then were the chances of 
reaching midway along the boom? Avalanches of water 
swept it incessantly, and with the discovery hope perished 
for all but Roetsen. 

He shouted to the man above him, and each took the 
other’s place. 

“Take courage, Davy; all will yet be well,” he shouted 
as he went up and up. 

A single cable reached from the crosstrees to the inter- 
section. Roetsen ’s eyes had seen the chance; his will had 
taken it. The men shouted hoarsely as he went down and 
down into the swishing, roaring water. Courage quickened 
with the sight, and cheer after cheer wafted amid the storm 
to the men on shore. 

The descent had been rapid, and from Roetsen ’s hands 
blood dripped into the seething cauldron. Between waves 
the line loosened, slowly but surely. The untanglement was 
complete, the end tied beneath Roetsen ’s shoulders. He 
looked upward and the distance filled his heart with despair • 
his gaze caught sight of a limp form held tight to the mast 
by the brawny Anderson, and Despair was routed by Des- 
peration. 

Roetsen turned in time to bend before the forceful blow 
of a huge breaker. Above men held their breath as he 


OUR BROTHER’S CHILD, 


i io 

caught his in gasps, hand o’er-reaching hand and the boom 
waning below. When the last vestige of strength seemed 
to be leaving him, his eyes instinctively sought the rigging; 
his lips uttered a prayer and her name, and Love and God 
supplied the needed power. 

Davy watched with half-blinded eyes the struggle against 
death, and his soul grew firm in a settled resolve. 

* ******* 

A week later the mail carrier gave Davy, now almost well, 
a letter from his mother. He pondered long over its con- 
tents, and inarticulately cried, “Poor Mary! Poor Mary!” 

“Mary’s ill,” his mother told him in the letter, ‘‘but the 
doctor don’t seem to know what ails her.” Then the letter 
went on to other topics, concluding by informing him that 
the accompanying valentine — a bleeding heart — was from 
Mary, and begging him to send some slight token in return. 

Davy gazed long and tenderly on the missive. Almost 
buried amid its folds were some simple lines, written pre- 
sumably by the sender’s own hand. Deeper feeling than he 
had ever known surged through the young man’s breast, 
as he read: 

Accept, dear love, this broken, bleeding heart; 

Crude symbol of the havoc wrought in mine. 

And yet I feel for thee as this imparts: 

That I would yet be thy true valentine. 

From the piazza Davy entered a room covered with Per- 
sian carpets. The furniture was superb — rosewood and 
buhl. Serves and China intermingled with the products 
of Saxony and the looms of France. On a massive mahog- 
any table he wrote briefly to his mother and Mary. He had 
sealed the letters when Miss Sutliff came in. She, too, 
held a letter in her hand. She smiled, and together they 
walked back to the veranda. 

Below, the Hudson shimmered in the sunlight; a hundred 


AND OTHER STORIES. 


iit 


craft scurried or floated lazily on its surface. The girl toyed 
with a gold pendant hanging from her throat; her thumb 
inadvertently, perhaps, pressed it, and Roetsen’s image 
passed before her eyes. She folded and re-folded the note 
nervously. Eventually she held it open, it and her hand 
rested on Davy’s knee. 

“I received this from — from — Mr. Roetsen, this morning,” 
she stammered. “Will you answer it for me?” 

Davy showed no sign of astonishment. He took the 
proffered note and read its one short sentence^a question. 

For a moment both were silent, Miss Sutliff almost un- 
consciously placed her hand over her heart to still its tu- 
mult. For an instant her eyes rested on a glistening bend far 
distant on the waterway. A pencil grated and she turned. 

Davy handed to her the note on which he had written a 
scrawling “Yes.” 

With the impulsiveness of youth the girl threw her arms 
around his neck, and kissed the still pale but handsome face. 

“And you?” she asked, still leaning over him, her face a 
mixture of smiles and tears. 

Davy gazed reflectively westward. The siren of a pass- 
ing steamer cast echoes from either wooded shore. He 
waited until the last faint sound had died in the distance, 
then turned with a calm and determined look. 

“I’m goin’ home,” he said, slowly, “to take a valentine.” 


BLOSSOMS AND DECAY. 


Blossoms, the scented vari-colored gems, 

Of springtime, emblematic and dear 
To all human hearts who the beautiful 
Exquisite handiwork of Nature love; 

Yet fickle as all beauty, for the blast 
Of Winter, which in dalliance hung behind 
The first warm winds that ushered in their birth, 
Destroyed them; as the pangs of sickness, care, 
And sorrow which must come to all in turn, 

Fade and obliterate the beauty from 
The face and form that in youth’s springtime fills 
With love the eyes that on it gaze. E’en so 
As chilling winds remove the splendor from 
Dame Nature’s countenance, decrepit age 
With its great train of servants, good and ill, 
Removes the beauty from the fairest face — 

With unsightly furrows mars the smoothest brow. 


THE MISADVENTURE. 


(A Boy’s Story.) 

Frequent excursions had added many specimens of 
indigenous flora and fauna to the nucleus reposing in the 
High School Botany Club’s “treasure box.” It was dur- 
ing one of these excursions that the boys came upon a 
miner’s cabin. Disused for many years it was fast falling 
into decay. The roof, in portions, had fallen or been crushed 
by crashing boulders from the almost perpendicular moun- 
tain side looming behind it. To the left, the swift-running 
Kiskiminetas eddied onward to meet the broader and silent 
Allegheny. Half-circling during countless years the swash 
of Spring floods had torn away the north mountain, until, 
seared and bare, it reared its gray, vertical wall eight hun- 
dred feet above the water. 

A violent storm had driven the boys to the cabin for 
shelter. Small pieces of rock, impelled by the torrential 
downpour, fell with a thud on the precarious roof above 
and about its walls. 

“This place is almost as dangerous as the lightning,” 
said Harvey, stepping to the rear of the hut, where, during 
many years had gathered quite a large heap of soil, washed 
from the crevices far up on the mountain side. This had 
fostered amid the warmth of the Summer months several 
plants which Harvey — quite a student in botany — described 
to the group gathered about him. 

“This is a Mesembryanthemum ,” he said. Plucking 
another he handed it to one of the boys. “This is a fragrant 
flower that does well in cool places such as this. Reseda it 
is called. But oh! what’s this?” 

Harvey lifted from the mound a most peculiar plant 


OUR BROTHER’S CHILD, 


114 

having an appended root of such form as to baffle ab- 
solutely correct description. Each boy examined it in his 
turn, but none could say what it was, or that he had ever 
seen its like before. 

“Perhaps it’s some variety of Dutch bulb,” ventured Roy. 

“Or a specie of wild parsnip,” said Benton. 

It was handed round the circle until Harvey got possession 
of it again. “Guess we’ll have to rely on ‘Professor’, ” 
he said, carefully placing the curious tuber in his pocket. 

The storm was severe and soon over. Along the tow- 
path — sole remainder of pre-railroad days — the Botany 
Club went singing. At dusk two boys rapped for admit- 
tance at a house intensely dark to outward appearance. 
Some time later they were discussing with an eccentric old 
man, whom the boys termed “Professor” in recognition 
of his unusual knowledge of all things abstruse, this latest 
specimen. He preceded them into a room littered with a 
multifarious collection. 

“What now, boys — er — ah — some new — ” 

“A root we want you to examine, if you please,” interposed 
Harvey, taking the object from his pocket, and unfolding 
it from the newspaper with which it was wrapped. “Pro- 
fessor” stood, meanwhile, eagerly rubbing his hands pre- 
paratory to clasping this latest treasure. 

“Very good,” he started. “Indeed, indeed! You did 
quite — er — that is — er — cuilibet in arte sua credendum est\ 
happy idea — er — curio sa jelicitas\ curiosa jelicitasl ” he 
concluded with a rising inflection ending his rapture. 

The two boys watched him move over to an extensive case 
containing on one side scores of dried, and apparently, 
worthless, specimens of woodland and strata; on the other 
a few black-looking dog-eared tomes. From among the 
latter he took a small volume. Very slowly and deliberately 
— so it seemed to his visitors— he wiped first his spectacles 
then the book; which laborious labor done he resumed his 
seat. 


AND OTHER STORIES. 


ii5 

“This volu — this er — catalogue raisonne I find very val- 
uable,” drawled “Professor”, “whenever a vexata quaes — 
er — that is when I am not quite sure, you understand?” 

Harvey and Roy nodded assent. “Professor” turned a 
few pages. 

“Gin — g — i — g— i — g — h— g — i — , yes, here it is. So I 
surmised. Ginseng. Rara, indeed! Resembling the 
human — er yes, my dear fellows, had you brought to me 
from Miner’s Peak a specimen of the real Edelweiss, I 
could not — I would not, be more surprised.” 

“Edelweiss!” echoed Roy, turning to Harvey, “we haven’t 
any of that.” 

“No, it’s found only in the Swiss — ”. Harvey started, but 
“Professor”, twirling the root over and over as if still du- 
bious of its genuineness, broke in again in his peculiar sing- 
song style. 

“Very valuable, very valuable medicinal plant. For ex- 
portation sold readily at — ”. Here “Professor’s” voice 
lowered to an extent sufficient to make his words inaudible 
to the boys, in spite of their alertness. Instantly he re- 
sumed: “A few localities in Northern New York and South- 
ern Canada have been found indigenous to the — er — that is 
the wild plant is native to a few portions of America, but 
in this vicinity it is a prodigy, indeed.” 

“Gracious!” whispered Roy, nudging Harvey gently in 
the ribs, the latter returning the “poke” in open-eyed won- 
derment. 

“You say the mound contained no more of this kind?” in- 
quired “Professor,” “and that the rocks are bare for several 
hundred feet?” 

The boys affirmed his queries. 

“Well,” continued “Professor,” “there must be a level, 
or semi-level shelf of soil somewhere above the precipice 
from which this became detached.” 

The man sniffed at the root. 

“Yes ; aromatic, very valuable. Gentlemen,” addressing 


n6 


OUR BROTHER’S CHILD 


the boys, “I’ll buy all you can find of it, and pay you three 
dollars for each pound.” 

Roy and Harvey gazed at the man in wonderment. 

“Three dollars the pound!” echoed Roy. “Why, that’ll 
buy all the books we’ve got listed.” 

“But the chances for an extensive field are unfavorable, 
consequently your total find can not be great,” said “Pro- 
fessor.” “I have searched the vicinity you mention, and 
near the cabin you have mentioned, but never succeeded 
in securing aught of — 

The “Professor’s” voice lowered to an inaudible whisper, 
as he examined with an appreciable degree of satisfaction 
the botanical specimen. Royal took advantage to inquire 
if they should bring the roots green or wait until they were 
dry — provided they were fortunate enough to secure any. 

“Green — green!” stammered “Professor”, taking off 
his eyeglasses and placing them carefully in the receptacle 
he held in his left hand. “Green; I’ll dry them,” he as- 
sured the boys as they took leave of him, fearful, no doubt, 
that waiting might deprive him of a good bargain. 

Fifteen minutes later the committee made known to the 
Club the result of its interview with the “Professor.” The 
following Saturday was chosen as a propitious day to search 
for the “mother-lode”, as one boy facetiously termed it. 
Ropes, spades, buckets were gathered in indiscriminate 
mass preparatory to the all-imporant ascent. Alpinists 
never more eagerly awaited a chosen day, or dragged forth 
a more varied confusion of climbing impedimenta than did 
the High School boys, for the anticipated ginseng hunt on 
Miner’s Peak. But what looked easy from the cabin proved 
hard in reality, and nearly all the articles were needed ex- 
cept the buckets. 

The field of operations lying, as near as could be discov- 
ered from the base, about two-thirds way up the mountain- 
side, the boys decided on a long, oblique ascent from the 
right. A plot of green foliage, some of which seemed 


AND OTHER STORIES. 


117 

to shoot upward straight out of the gray-rock wall, was 
pointed out as the objective point. Buckets and poles, 
spikes and spades, rattled discordantly with the boys’ ex- 
ultant shouts. 

“But calm in the distance the great hills rose 
Deaf unto raptures — 

The ascent began. 

“I’ll take the lead,” said Harvey, clutching the rope to 
which each boy held; “you, Benton, take the middle, and 
Roy the other end.” 

The positions adjusted, spades and buckets tied on their 
shoulders, rope in the left hand, staff in the right, the first 
two hundred feet was soon overcome. A small quantity 
of gravel covered the rock to this point, giving root to num- 
erous vines of wild-grape, which arched the rocky sides in 
wild festoon. The purple coguls threaded from rock to 
rock; the vines’ long tendrils shooting, not downward, as 
in more congenial soil, but along the bottom of the thin, soft, 
mould. This endeavor to gain a foothold in such barren 
abode had formed the most fantastic network. Several 
times the boys were kept from falling only by the extensive- 
ness of the vine, the loosened portion pulling at that farther 
above. 

“Halt!” cried Harvey. “Line up on this ledge, and we’ll 
rest awhile.” 

The spot chosen was about three hundred feet above the 
miner’s cabin. 

“ Jiminy! it’s tough work,” said one of the smaller boys, 
wiping the sweat from his brow with his sleeve, and, panting, 
took his seat on the ledge. 

“It ain’t compared to what’s above us,” said Roy, not 
very grammatically expressing his meaning, considering he 
was a high school senior. 

Hitherto, nothing but gaining a foothold had drawn their 


n8 


OUR BROTHER’S CHILD, 


attention, but now they had time to look around. Roy 
turned to his companions. 

“That’s going to be a hard proposition for sure,” said he, 
pointing to the precipice towering dark and vertical above 
their heads. “You fellows wait here, while I go ahead to 
see if there are any footholds.” 

The others demurred, but Roy intrepidly went forward, 
now clutching, now stamping or digging, to get a substantial 
foot-rest. Obliquely he moved, first left and then right, 
the roots and branches of the mountain sumachs aiding 
greatly in the upward movement. As a result of his in- 
vestigations the boys moved much farther to the right, tak- 
ing a more slanting pathway which Roy discovered to them 
as they went forward, he, instead of Harvey, now taking 
the lead. 

“Steady, boys, steady,” he called, as he came to a shelv- 
ing rock where room was scant for the body to slide along 
back to the rocky wall. There still remained about two 
hundred feet to traverse. One of the boys became dizzy, 
and started downwards; another accompanying him for 
no other reason than “just because.” This left only Roy, 
Harvey, and a boy hitherto mentioned — Harry Benton. 
These three, undaunted, continued the ascent. 

“Not quite so fast, my hearties!” exclaimed Roy, from 
under whose feet a loose portion of rock broke and went 
bounding to the mountain base, five hundred feet below 
them. 

“We must try our footholds better,” said Harvey; which 
sensible suggestion was carried out during the rest of the 
climb. 

The boys were now within a few feet of the laurels. By 
their side was a wide shelf nearly fifty feet in length. Here 
they rested, nothing loath after their exertions. Now, for 
the first time the opportunity was good to gaze on their sur- 
roundings. 

“Golly, but this is grand!” exclaimed Harvey. 


AND OTHER STORIES. 


IT 9 

And indeed the view from where the boys sat was fine. 
From below them far onto the horizon the Kiskiminetas 
tapered from its rippling, normal, breadth to a silvery streak 
turning now to the right and now the left, the low, wooded 
banks seeming, from the distance, level with the water-edge. 
The stream’s runnel by degrees diminishing the banks ap- 
peared closer and closer together, until, far on the horizon 
its course was lost from view. Crowning the slope below 
them the Summer winds whispered between the wee bramble 
leaves, the hazel and the hawthorn. 

Roy fanned his heated face with his straw hat, repeating 
meanwhile from memory, 

“Grateful the breeze 

That fans my throbbing temples; smiles the plain 
Spread wide below; how sweet the placid view!” 

Harvey, pointing southward along the mountain ridge, 
asked with Bryant, if, 

“The breezes of the South e’er fanned 
A nobler, or a lovlier scene than this?” 

“Well, boys, this is not getting what we came for,” said 
Benton. 

“Only in the aesthetic sense,” replied Harvey. 

They gathered their implements and proceeded to climb. 
But a few rods lay between them and their goal, and this 
was soon gained. The slanting portion of the mountain, 
from which they expected to get the rare and valuable roots, 
extended much farther back than had appeared from the 
base, and was well covered with shrubbery. From his 
pocket Harvey took the specimen they had found in the 
miner’s cabin to guide them in their search. For some 
minutes their errand appeared futile, not a sign of the pecu- 
liar tea-leafed, or rather, tea-like, plant showing above the 
soil, 


120 


OUR BROTHER’S CHILD, 


Benton had turned along the right edge, and was quite a 
distance from the others. Suddenly he came upon a patch 
many yards in extent, but perilously near the precipice edge. 

“Careful! Benton, careful!” yelled Harvey, terrified by 
the foolhardiness of the boy. 

But Benton was oblivious to all except what lay at his feet. 

“Come here, fellows,” he called. 

Roy and Harvey moved cautiously toward where he stood, 
admonishing their companion as they went to move upward 
from such dangerous proximity to the precipice. The 
warning came too late. In his eagerness Benton had made 
one step backward, onto what seemed solid soil, but which 
was really nothing but a few inches of mould overlying some 
jutting roots. With a terrifying shriek the boy’s body dis- 
appeared over the edge, his bucket and spade crashing, 
with an echo resounding from the opposite hills, to the river 
below. The rope which still held the boys together gave 
a sickening thud, as it became taut around their waists. 

Instinctively Harvey clutched at anything in reach, as 
did his companion; but the weight on the end of the rope 
was slowly but surely dragging them both to the edge. 
Wildly they grasped at the roots, the tufts of long grass, 
the hanging branches; the latter they could not reach. 
The soft mould gave way easily — too easily, and nearer and 
nearer went the two boys, much faster than this is told. 
Not a word escaped either; the only noise breaking the still- 
ness being the thrashing of their hands as they tore the nails 
from their finger ends, endeavoring to gain a hold that would 
stay their downward progress. 

Benton, in falling, had struck the back of his head, and 
sustained other injuries, which had rendered him uncon- 
scious. The climbing-rope was long — nearly fifty feet — 
having originally been intended for the entire party of five 
boys, allowing ten feet for each; but in spite of its length it 
was fast disappearing over the edge. 

The entire distance Harvey and Roy had been pulled was 


AND OTHER STORIES. 


I2t 

marked by two uneven furrows, as they had grasped first 
this side, then that, with their torn and bleeding fingers. 

Only about thirty feet of rope still remained on the safe 
side of the precipice, Roy frantically struggling not more 
than ten feet from the place over which Benton had fallen. 
To the right hand appeared the only saving feature, a small, 
but sturdy, laurel bush. This lay several feet out of the 
path over which the boys were sliding. Roy, as he passed it, 
had made several ineffectual attempts to reach it. Harvey 
was nearer. 

“Grasp it! Catch it!” yelled the now thoroughly fright- 
ened Roy. 

Harvey reached to his utmost, as, sliding to death down 
the steep-sloping shelf, he came opposite this last remaining 
hope. But he could not reach it ! Roy w r as but a few feet — 
aye, inches were more exact — from the place where further 
struggles would be useless, when he turned his eyes in a de- 
spairing gaze on Harvey. In that instant, indistinctly, 
but nevertheless really, he saw a crouching body rise and 
shoot forward, two arms outstretched preceding it. The 
struggling balance removed, Roy felt himself pulled more 
swiftly toward the fate from which there seemed now to be 
no escape. His feet were over, his body was on the edge, 
w r hen he felt a sudden jerk, upward ! Indistinctly, he heard 
a voice call, “Hold fast, Roy, we’re safe!” 

Involuntarily Roy clutched at the few remaining roots 
and tufts in front of him, and, although he did not go 
upward, he did not go downward. Lifting his head for an 
instant, he saw Harvey’s arms wrapped around the bush. 

“Dig in and come forward a little so I can tie the rope,” 
he faintly remembered Harvey telling him; and he did his 
best to comply. His finger-nails were nearly all broken, 
but he felt no pain. A blur, which, for the time, he could 
not define, was going round and round the bush. The 
“blur” continued circling, as did the mountains, the trees, 
the river in the distance, all commingling in undistinguish- 
able confusion and — blackness. 


OUR BROTHER’S CHILD, 


122 

Roy was at home. Somewhere — he knew not where — 
his mother’s voice was calling, “Royal! Royal!” 

Then came a pause. 

“Roy, come, old fellow, wake up!” she was saying; and 
a vague wonder possessed him to know why she said “wake 
up” when he was not asleep. 

The utter blackness was giving way. Plainer still he 
heard the voice calling, “Roy, wake up! Benton’s leg is 
broken.” 

Slowly his eyelids opened; the trees became more distinct 
as consciousness returned. 

“ Gosh!” exclaimed Harvey, “I thought I’d have both you 
fellows to drag down the precipice. Here’s Benton caught 
his foot in some manner as he fell, and either broken or 
sprained it badly; anyhow he can’t use it. And you in some 
kind of a doldrum in which, as I had no water, I was com- 
pelled to use my voice and hat, the latter very vigorously.” 

“Where are the others?” abstractedly asked Roy, turn- 
ing around as if to look for them. For the moment he had 
forgotten that they three alone had continued to the top. 

“Doldrum not quite gone yet,” muttered Harvey to him- 
self. 

“Where’s the ginseng?” asked Roy. 

“Hang the ginseng!” tartly exclaimed Harvey; “we’ll 
have our hands full in getting safely to the bottom without 
bothering with buckets.” 

“But we must get the roots, now,” urged Roy. “We’ve 
gone through too much to turn back without taking them 
with us.” 

Harvey strode over to Benton and pulled him a little 
farther from the edge. “Your desire is stronger than your 
constitution, my boy,” he said, turning to Roy. 

The latter pulled a ball of twine from his pocket. “We 
can fill our buckets and lower them on this,” he said, hand- 
ing it to Harvey. “That is if Harry can wait so long.” 

Benton, although his leg was paining severely, manfully 


AND OTHER STORIES. 


123 


replied that he would willingly wait; which fact, poor fel- 
low, was very obvious, had his companions decided on a 
course of action without his consent. 

A few minutes sufficed for Harvey and Roy to uproot 
the tubers, of which they were just sufficient to fill two buck- 
ets. On the twine-end they let them down, and commenced 
the wearisome task of carrying and dragging their unfort- 
unate. companion. 

Two places there were over which they had to lower him 
by placing the rope around his chest, under the arm-pits, 
causing the boy grievous pain in addition to that he was 
already suffering. 

But in spite of difficulties they got safely down. Roy re- 
mained with Harry while Harvey ran nearly two miles to 
the nearest farmhouse for aid. In a spring- wagon, which 
Harvey procured, the injured boy was conveyed in a fairly 
comfortable manner to his home, to receive his mother’s 
care and mild censure, as well as the physician’s skill. 

Some weeks later the Club convened to elect a new pres- 
ident; Harvey was leaving for Washington and Jefferson 
College on the ensuing Monday. The boys were grouped 
around the pine table adorning the room-center when Harvey 
came in. Throwing a note on the table he said, “Boys, 
here’s a letter from 1 Professor.’ Perhaps the secretary 
will oblige us by reading the same.” 

Benton, who was the club’s corresponding official, was 
present for the first time since the accident. He tore open 
the envelope. 

“A check, boys, a check for forty-three dollars!” he ex- 
claimed gleefully. “A broken leg wasn’t the only thing we 
got out of it.” 

“That’ll pay Benton’s doctor bill, and buy the books,” 
suggested Harvey, seemingly in jest, but the Club manfully 
ratified it in earnest. 


MY SWEETHEART. 


Oh, could I but have Muse’s skill, 

Or could I climb Parnassus hill 
And words impart, 

Just as I feel of love I hold, 

That by my pen can not be told 
Of my sweetheart. 

In years agone, when first we met, 

I loved her best of any yet 
That I had seen; 

And do to-day — and every day 
Has cast Love’s sunshine o’er the way 
The years between. 

Vicissitudes and joys we’ve shared, 

In good and bad together fared 
Through married life. 

When load lay heavy, my sweetheart 
Has shouldered cheerfully a part, 

Her share of strife. 

We’ve bonds of love more than we had 
When first her smile made my heart glad 
In courting days. 

We’ve many ties that bind us fast 
In love that will through this life last — 

It grows with age. 

O’er her fair head may love Divine 
Cast rays of influence benign, 

Till life shall end. 

Long be her days! May I be spared 
In age with her, and as we fared 
So heavenward wend. 


THE TEST CATHOLIC. 


Tell not to us Religion’s forms or creeds 
By which, as mortals, must conform our deeds — 
Praise God, above; 

A Christian true is he, who, pure in heart, 
Would, Christlike, to all near and far impart 
His kindness; love. 



BY CIRCUMSTANTIAL EVIDENCE. 


Personal biography is not of vital importance to my 
story, but if my reader will not weary I shall preface the 
incidents I am about to relate by a short sketch of affairs 
antedating my advent into the limelight of publicity. I 
had intended that none other than my wife and myself 
should ever peruse the secrets I hold, since, the day I looked 
gleefully for the last time upon the dark turrets at Joliet 
I vowed that that day Robert Earle should sink into oblivion ; 
that naught of this, or aught else connected with the un - 
fortunate circumstance, should ever become known — not 
on my account, or Gertrude’s, but for the sake of inno- 
cents then unborn. To this end have I placed a thousand 
miles between those walls and myself. 

My father and mother having died while I was yet an 
infant I was placed in the home of a stranger, from which 
place I had abundant cause to leave the day I became of age. 

I wandered into the city of Chicago, carrying in a rather 
dejected manner all of my personal belongings, which 
consisted of one carpet sack containing a change of under- 
wear, several books and a few trinkets. Within myself 
there lived an indomitable desire to succeed, which was 
the more valuable asset, since with it I overcame difficul- 
ties that would have been insurmountable to one of less 
determination. I attended night school, and, afterward, 
a business college. Some months later I applied for, and 
secured, a position with the firm of Lloyd & Lloyd, Bankers; 
eventually entering upon the duties which proved so dis- 
astrous in the end. 

The bank was not a large one, a young woman — whom 
I afterward learned was the daughter of the senior part- 
ner — and the cashier, being the only employees beside 


AND OTHER STORIES. 


127 


myself. The offices were situated in the old Trusser 
Building, a seven-story “sky-scraper” of that day. My 
desk was beside Miss Lloyd’s, the one on the left hand 
being occupied by the cashier. 

Since the day I left the farm I had been fancy free, so 
far as womankind was concerned ; but I was free no longer. 
From the first hour I sat by her side I loved her — my fair 
companion. But a short time sufficed to convince me that 
I "alone did not desire her affections. 

4 ‘You will pass your accounts to Mr. Roland, on their 
completion,” Miss Lloyd murmured, sweetly, as I opened 
the first package. 

The cashier looked my way, his visage showing evident 
signs of displeasure. He examined all the accounts I 
handled; his signature certifying correctness. 

‘ ‘It would perhaps be more convenient for you, Mr. 
Earle, if you exchange seats with me,” said Miss Lloyd. 

I objected as strongly as a new beginner dared, and the 
cashier made strenuous protest. We were each willing 
to let things remain status quo. Several weeks passed. 
Roland’s manner repelled, while from the young lady’s 
disposition I could gather nothing. She used either of us in 
the same courteous, gentle manner. But I felt that this 
would not be so indefinitely. One day she would accept 
an invitation from Roland to accompany him to a party, 
or ball, while I vegetated moodily in my apartment. The 
next week she would do the same by me, and my spirits 
would immediately gain illimitable heights. 

My rival was far the more dashing and polished. Born 
amid conditions of society such as he then frequented, his 
deportment was agreeable to the most exclusive circles. 
His salary was larger than mine, but from what I knew 
of the purchasing power of a dollar, his expenditures must 
have been far greater than his income. But it was not 
within my province to say from whence came the defi- 
ciency. 


128 


OUR BROTHER’S CHILD, 

Some months passed; my mind alternatly elated and 
depressed. The leaves in the parks were tinging, calling 
the country-bred spirit from among the blackened walls; 
calling it out — out where naught but the sweet fragrance 
of nature mingled with the frosty, exhilarating air. 

On such a morning Gertrude consented to accompany 
me on an outing. At the appointed hour I drew rein for 
her to step in, my heart palpitating wildly with the surging 
of joy. Never in my life had I felt so proud, so glad, nor 
had the world, and Cook County in particular, seemed such 
a good place to abide in. 

The horse was my own, a noble animal I had procured 
to indulge in my favorite pastime when not on duty: long 
horseback journeys into the surrounding country; inci- 
dentally hoping that sometime Gertrude would accom- 
pany me in a carriage. And now my desire was to be 
realized ! 

Miss Lloyd was a lover, as well as a good judge, of horse- 
flesh. She went forward and gently patted the sorrel, 
praising his fine outlines and perfectly arched neck. But 
I did not see the horse; I saw only her. As she leaned 
forward I noted the perfect poise of her figure. Her face 
was flushed, and her blond hair waved back from her tem- 
ples into coils of glistening gold beneath a veritable garden 
of flowers. Closely fitting her form she wore a snow-white 
dress, which, with the pink ribbons set in bewitching bows 
and groups, and, more than all, her laughing, rougish, 
blue eyes sparkling with the zest of youth, completed a 
picture such as is rarely seen. 

We sped quickly away from the sordidness of brick, out 
into the open country, whose fragrance wafted pleasantly 
to our nostrils, with its homely, yet sweet, perfume. Afar, 
in the meadows, we could hear the tinkling of bells, as the 
cattle and sheep nipped the tall grass from beside the 
flowing brook. 

The scene filled me with a longing to go back— back 


AND OTHER STORIES. 


129 


to the haunts from whence I had come; to work again in 
the pungent air of the early country morn ; to hear the low- 
ing herd calling me with my pails; to wander amid the warm, 
wet mould of the woods, and gather, tired, but contented, 
around the shade tree on a Summer’s eve, or the blazing 
logs in Winter. 

For the moment I had nearly forgotten my companion. 
‘ ‘Are you enjoying the ride ? ” I asked. 

‘ ‘Splendidly!” she exclaimed. ‘ ‘I just love a good horse, 
and this is a good one.” 

And he was. The worm fences fairly flew past us. 

‘ ‘You are well acquainted with good horses, lately, are 
you not?” I ventured. “Mr. Roland has exquisite turn- 
outs, and he came often for you.” 

‘ ‘Yes,” she murmured, lowering her head. ‘ ‘But he 
likes the boulevards, the paved streets, while the country 
appeals to me, with its woods, its broad meadows, its pure, 
sweet-smelling air.” 

I felt lifted into heaven. Her tastes were as my own, 
in this respect, at least. 

‘ ‘You must let me take you often,” I urged, impulsively. 

She did not answer, except with a smile I had learned 
meant many things. But, nothing daunted, I continued: 
‘ ‘Did you ever feel that certain fragrances were part of your 
nature? that you longed, unknowingly, perhaps, for 
them?” 

She looked at me, smiling, but somewhat amazed. 

‘ ‘Even in my childhood I have felt ecstacy or depression 
as I have been denied or given the privilege to enjoy them,” 
she said slowly. ‘ ‘I suppose it was not the outing I cared 
for as much as the opportunity to get close to a part of my 
nature, subtle, and undefined, but undeniably there.” 

I bit my lip to keep back sentiments I knew ought not to 
be so prematurely expressed. I knew that by my side 
there sat a kindred spirit; born amid entirely different 
surroundings, yet one even as I. Had I one idiosyncrasy 


OUR BROTHER’S CHILD, 


* 3 ° 

more defined than another, it was that she had so admira- 
bly expressed. 

‘ ‘Once, in sheer desire to be out in the country, I rode out 
without pommel or saddle,” Miss Lloyd continued, her 
teeth gleaming pearl-like amid the dimpled smiles evoked 
by the reminiscence. ‘ ‘But it ended disastrously; I walked 
back,” and her pealing laughter echoed in the woods by 
our side. 

We were cantering along a splendid stretch of road, 
flanked on either side by beeches whose branches made a 
leafy arch. 

‘ ‘Oh, isn’t this delightful?” exclaimed Gertrude. 

I thought so too, but would have added, had I dared, 
that to complete its perfection there were needed a strong 
pair of arms around a snow-white form, and as many 
kisses impressed on two ruby lips as the length of the arch 
would admit. As it was, I stole my free arm back of her, 
the touch of her dress giving vague thrills of exquisite 
pleasure. 

‘ ‘May I drive, Robert — that is — Mr. Earle?” she asked, 
coyly correcting herself. 

We sped swiftly along a low road, and crept slowly up a 
slope to a hillcrest commanding a splendid view of the 
surrounding country. At the top Gertrude drew rein. 

‘ ‘Our ride will be over soon, if we drive so fast,” she 
said, flushing a deep crimson. 

Her words elated me, only to depress in turn. Did she 
really mean that my companionship was sufficiently desir- 
able as to create in her a desire to prolong it? or, was her 
innate disposition such as to lead me to believe it, only 
to ultimately make an ass of myself ? In a transient mood 
of lightheartedness I laughed outright. 

‘ ‘What do you see?” Miss Lloyd asked. 

The country was broad, but to me it centered in close 
proximity to myself. 

‘ ‘It is beautiful, isn’t it?” she continued, gazing far over 


AND OTHER STORIES. 


131 

the meadows and brooks lying below us, the latter resem- 
bling nothing more than silver threads in a green back- 
ground. 

‘Yes,” answered I; but my meaning was not synonymous 
with her own. 

‘ ‘Do you feel it so?” she asked; then, ‘ ‘Will its potency 
ever lure you back?” 

4 ‘I fervently hope so,” I replied. 

“And be a farmer?” she questioned, in a surprised 
tone. 

“Anything; a dirt-wheeler, if need be.” 

She looked at me strangely, but, for fear of betraying 
myself I kept my gaze on a little white cottage far in the 
distance, so far and so small that it made but a speck on 
the horizon. 

4 ‘Robert — that is — Mr. Earle, I had no idea you dis- 
liked the city so.” 

‘ ‘It is not dislike for anything, but because I like somethi 
— er — someone — so — well!” I blurted out, thoroughly 
flustered. 

My companion leaned forward and urged the sorrel to 
a faster pace, and for a mile conversation lagged. I gazed 
abstractedly at the trees fast disappearing behind us. 

‘ ‘I had no idea you clung to the country — now,” Ger- 
trude resumed, as if regretful at what I had told her. 

‘ ‘The town would do as well,” I replied, positively. 

She looked at me with a puzzled look. ‘ ‘I am afraid 
I do not quite understand,” she said. 

‘ ‘Its influence has been, indirectly, more potent than 
you imagine.” 

Gertrude glanced quickly at me. 4 ‘It’s strange,” she 
murmured. 

“Not at all,” I replied; “instead, it’s quite natural, 
begging your pardon for contradiction.” 

‘ ‘I suppose,” she continued, seriously, ‘ ‘when city folks 
come here to live, all seems dull, unvaried, monotonous; 


132 


OUR BROTHER’S CHILD, 


then, by and by, the dullness gives way to the life — quiet, 
but still perfect life, — one sees in everything; the serenity 
appeals to their innate sense of desiring quietude, that the 
soul — as the soul of every true man and woman desires 
to do — may commune in peace with nature and with God. 
I have found this to be utterly impossible amid the hurly- 
burly of the city; the mad, money-making, rushing whirl 
of man-made environment.” 

Her eloquence, her strain of thought, so eloquently ex- 
pressed, brought me back suddenly to herself — her beau- 
tiful, and, as I now felt regarding her, almost divine self. 
Her confession of love for the beauties surrounding us 
made me love her more, if that were possible, than I had 
done before. 

‘ ‘This,” she continued, without the least show of ego- 
tism, ‘ ‘is why I have so many times sought solitude in this 
direction myself, but for the importunities of my friends 
abhoring the rush of society and preponderant business.” 

A turn in the road brought us to the city outskirts, where, 
swinging along, we saw Roland. The most common-place 
courtesy compelled me to ask him up. Gertrude chatted 
on, touching a little on everything, evidently desirous of 
pleasing both companions. But I was not pleased; I was 
selfish of her presence. Roland evidently surmised as 
much; he got out before we had gone far, excusing himself 
on the plea of meeting someone — I forget whom. 

Of course Miss Lloyd invited me to dinner, and a more 
uncomfortable hour I never spent in my life. My country 
characteristics made me feel immodestly alive and sensi- 
tive in such a formality. 

“You will come again, Mr. Earle?” said Gertrude, at 
parting, and of my embarrassment for the moment I for- 
got and answered ‘ ‘Yes.” 

A perceptible chill pervaded the working atmoshpere 
of the bank, when we were assembled on the following 
Monday. It was palpable to the dullest intellect that all 


AND OTHER STORIES. 


i33 


was not well. A subdued strain, as if each one present an- 
ticipated an impending denouement, was visible in the 
actions of all. I was not exempt from the general feeling 
of uncertainty, but from what source trouble was about 
to come I could not determine. To Roland’s animosity 
I attributed possible distress, but that it would eventually 
take the cowardly form it did I never dreamt. 

During the day I wrested from Gertrude promise to ac- 
company me on another drive to the opposite side of town 
to that we had taken the previous Saturday. 

The day was propitious for a long drive, so we started 
early. Gertrude was wrapped in a large fur-trimmed 
coat, to keep off the chill of the crisp, autumn morning. 
We drove swiftly out through the broad, maple-lined 
avenues, then through open stretches of prairie which is 
now covered with beautiful homes. The leaves were 
tinged perceptibly, but not so definitely as the red suffus- 
ing the cheeks of my companion. 

She launched ecstatically into the panegyrics of country 
life, as if our excursion were simply a continuation of the 
one preceding it. 

A group of merry girls and boys passed us on their way 
to a picnic, as was evident from the wee basket of edibles 
every one carried. Joyously they ran, now to this side 
now to that, as spied each little man or maid a pretty wood- 
land flower or fern, growing in extravagant profusion 
among the trees at our side. A young woman, evidently 
their teacher, came smiling; some distance behind them, 
another group of wee toddlers, too small to be among their 
more boisterous companions, clung to her skirts as she 
entered into miniature races with them. 

* ‘That is my ideal of a mother’s life,” said Gertrude. 
* ‘Not so large a group as that of course,” she corrected, 
smiling, ‘ ‘but two or three jolly little ones, romping, hang- 
ing to my skirts as we hunted the woods and fields for 
ferns and flowers,” 


134 


OUR BROTHER’S CHILD, 


I listened in respectful silence. Gertrude resumed: 

* ‘If I ever marry I shall want to live in the country, and 
have my husband ride or walk to his work in town as he 
may choose.” 

“Should you really?” I asked; then continued, “If 
I were wealthy enough to support a wife and that ‘ ‘jolly 
troop of babies” I should immediately offer myself as 
candidate for the pedestrian exercise.” 

“Robert!” Gertrude exclaimed, admonishingly. 

1 ‘Gertrude,” I stammered, ‘ ‘why not make your ideal 
come to real life?” 

She looked at me, smiling, and I saw no denial in her 
countenance. 

“I — may — ” I started, but in an instant found myself 
falling. I sub-consciously summoned all the athletic pro- 
clivities I had fostered at the gymnasium; gained my 
balance, and landed — in a ditch! Luckily it was shallow 
and I suffered no harm. We were moving slowly, but not 
too slow for my companion to be thrown out also. She 
fell with a cry, struggling to maintain her equilibrium. I 
caught her, trembling and pallid, and led her to a grassy 
knoll. The horse, well trained, had stopped instantly. 
The right front wheel of the buggy had broken through 
some decayed planking covering a culvert, and the damage 
was slight. In a moment I had lifted it, and betaken 
myself to the side of Gertrude, who sat knocking and rub- 
bing off with a handkerchief the dirt her garments had 
gathered. 

‘ ‘We will sit here, awhile,” I said, taking my seat. ‘ ‘Did 
it hurt you?” I asked. 

Gertrude assured me she had suffered no injury, but 
nevertheless, her voice still trembled from the shock. ‘ ‘It 
might have been a serious fall had you not been there,” 
she said. ‘ ‘How can I thank you ? ” 

She held out both hands, in gratitude. 

“How!” I echoed, as I took her dimpled fingers in my 


AND OTHER STORIES. 


r 35 


own. * ‘There is one way would please me, Gertrude, 
better than all else in the world. I know it is soon, and 
perhaps I am not worthy — but — ” 

‘ ‘I don’t quite understand,” she faltered. 

“Gertrude, don’t you care for me? Don’t you — don’t 
you — you do care enough to let me share that country 
home and ideal, I know you do, sweetheart.” 

Her blue eyes looked reflectively down at the semi- 
brown grass at her feet. From a bough, nearby, a sweet 
crescendo floated on the air, but of its notes I heard little. 
I was listening for something more vital to my happiness 
or discontent. For some moments I was silent, her hands 
still in mine. 

‘ ‘Can’t we, dear?” I asked again. 

* ‘Why, if you really want it so, Robert,” she replied. 

It might not have done so, but I fancied the sky took on 
a deeper tinge of blue; the feathered songsters warbled 
more sweetly than their wont, and, the face that now nes- 
tled in my bosom, the waving, auburn hair that I stroked 
with my hand, seemed all more beautiful than they had 
ever done. 

The intervening miles seemed never so short as on our 
return. Our sweet dalliance had kept us until the evening 
shadows lengthened, the city streets being dazzlingly bril- 
liant. For some moments we talked before parting, her 
soft arm resting gently on mine. I turned, at length, 
to go, and came face to face with Roland. 

This would not have seemed unusual under ordinary 
circumstances, but coming as he did at that moment, 
his advent into our presence appeared exceedingly inop- 
portune. 

We had been standing in the shadows, and had not seen 
him approaching, and the noise of the city had drowned 
his footfall. 

“Oh!” he exclaimed, and, as he let fall his right hand, 
I thought I saw the glimmer of a pistol. 


136 OUR BROTHER’S CHILD, 

Gertrude drew back, alarmed; Roland strode a step 
forward. 

1 T beg your pardon, Miss Lloyd,” he said. ‘ T thought 
I — that is — er — I heard voices in the shadows, and thought 
of highwaymen,” he stammered, evasively. 

Gertrude looked at the fellow in astonishment, the ex- 
pression of her features indicating plainly as words that 
she thought him either drunk, or worse. There was light 
enough for me to note the vicious look, and I stepped be- 
tween him and Miss Lloyd. 

“You seem to doubt me,” he said, scornfully, turn- 
ing to me. 

I did not answer, and he continued, snapping his words 
as if in rage: 

* T asked Miss Lloyd to be my wife, some time ago, and 
she refused. I was on my way to her home to do so again. 
Is there anything else you want to know?” 

‘ ‘I asked no explanation of your conduct or your ac- 
tions,” I replied, and I turned and clasped Gertrude’s 
hand in my own, while she timidly clung closer to me. 
‘ ‘I am afraid your mission is hopeless,” I said, turning 
to Roland; ‘ ‘Miss Lloyd has given me her promise.” 

The man staggered as if struck with a thunderbolt. 
He muttered a few words under his breath, one only of 
which we understood — ‘ ‘Ruined!” What he meant we 
knew not; but we knew later, to our sorrow. 

For two hours on the succeeding Monday our work 
went on as usual. I say ‘ ‘our” because Roland was there, 
his actions seemingly as unruffled as if the even tenor of 
his life had never been disturbed. I felt for a certainty 
that the man was drunk when he came upon us, and ex- 
pected he would make an apology to Gertrude, if not to 
me. In this, however, I was disappointed. 

About ten of the clock, the senior partner came in and 
took a seat on the opposite side from us. After looking 
at some papers he strode over to my desk. Quietly, so 


AND OTHER STORIES. 


137 


quiet indeed that I could scarcely hear him, he whispered, 
“ Do not make a scene, Mr. Earle, an officer of the law will 
be here, presently, to — ” 

“An officer of the law!” I echoed, not comprehending 
what the man was hinting at. 

“An officer — a constable,” he went on, quietly. ‘ ‘There 
has been some manipulation of the firm’s books, and our 
funds are some thousands of dollars short. A cursory 
examination has shown the fault to be yours, Mr. Earle; 
defalcations extending back to the identical week we took 
you into our employ.” 

I was too astonished to answer, to explain, to interrogate 
Mr. Lloyd in any manner, my silence doubtless adding to 
the incrimination in the mind of my employer. I simply 
sat there, wild-eyed and confused, feeling as if the whole 
thing were a horrid nightmare which would presently be 
dispelled. 

“We shall hold you pending a thorough audit of the 
bank’s accounts,” he continued. 

From the last sentence I gleaned hope. ‘ ‘Expert ex- 
amination” I felt confident would eventually prove my 
accounts correct, even as I, myself, was as positive as 
innocence gave me ground. 

In an hour I was behind the bars. Gertrude persisted 
in accompanying me, protesting every inch of the way 
against the ‘ ‘outrage.” 

For her only did I feel sorrow. For myself I had not 
the slightest doubt that in a short time I should be at 
liberty! Alas! how little mortal can discern what the 
future holds in store. 

Gertrude came the next day; her visit leaving me in a 
much better frame of mind. But the day following she 
brought disquieting news: the bank was burned to the 
ground! Roland, working alone on the lower floor, it 
was supposed had been incinerated, all exits having been 
closed by the auditors to prevent any possible interference 


OUR BROTHER’S CHILD, 


* 3 « 

with the books. The auditors had escaped onto the roof 
of an adjoining building, and thence to the ground. 

I was indifferent to the news; the events of the few pre- 
ceding days had numbed my senses of perception. The 
enormity of my alleged crime I did not realize. When 
my trial came I protested my innocence, and called atten- 
tion, through my attorney, to my previous good character. 
This done, I could do naught else but throw myself on 
the mercy of the court. But the evidence was all against 
me. If there was anything in my favor it was now de- 
stroyed in the conflagration. I was found guilty as 
indicted, and sentenced to serve five years in Joliet 
Penitentiary l 

From the court room they conveyed me, manacled, to 
my cell. Gertrude clung to me as to one going to the grave, 
her fair face contorted and her form convulsed with sobs. 
But at length we parted, she to go — not to her home, for 
she had left it the day her father caused my arrest — to a 
neighboring town, and I to Tier Number Two, Cell Four- 
teen. Thenceforth I was simply a number; ‘ ‘Robert 
Earle” was dead to the world. 

Arriving there I sat with my face between my hands, 
thoroughly discouraged for the first time in my life. I 
felt alternate desires to cry and curse, but ended by re- 
solving to bear my misfortune with manly fortitude. 

Of Gertrude’s continued love and belief in my innocence 
I had no doubt, but, even if she remained true to me, my 
progress in life had had an irredeemable setback in that 
locality. The prison mark does not leave the convict 
when he dons civilian garb. He cannot lay aside the tell- 
tale lockstep and the ‘ ‘shifty-eye,” engrafted upon him by 
a pernicious law, when he bundles his striped blouse and 
trousers. Guilty or innocent to the world and his former 
associates he is a “convict” still. Herein lies abundant 
opportunity for Christian thought and work. 

Gertrude accepted a position as bookkeeper, not a great 


AND OTHER STORIES. 


i39 


distance from the prison, from whence she brought me many 
little luxuries I would otherwise have been denied. But 
better than all else was the cheer her own sweet presence 
brought, short as was the visiting time the law allowed. 
******** 

Three years had passed, leaving but two years, minus 
the time deducted for good conduct, yet to serve, when 
one morning I received an order to go to the warden’s 
office. I obeyed in fear and trepidation. I had not cause 
to anticipate more trouble, yet, since my incarceration had 
been accomplished by circumstantial evidence, intuitively I 
looked on every untoward circumstance as the possible 
harbinger of ill-fortune. It was not Gertrude’s day to 
visit me, and no one else had shown enough respect to do 
so during my confinement, which facts filled my mind with 
varying cogitations as to the cause of my summons. 

I stood, accompanied by a keeper, at the side of a large 
table when the warden entered from another room. 

‘ ‘Good morning,” he said, gruffly. 

‘ ‘Good morning, sir,” I replied. 

‘ ‘Take a chair,” he commanded. 

I sat down. 

He reached from his desk a large envelope, and took 
therefrom a letter, bearing, as could be plainly seen from 
where I sat, an official seal. 

“Mr. Earle,” said the warden, and I was agreeably 
surprised to hear my name instead of number, ‘ ‘I have 
here a letter from Tuolumne County, California, attested 
by the proper authorities, and containing the confession 
of one George Roland.” 

‘ ‘George Roland ! ” I echoed. ‘ ‘Is he not dead ? ” 

‘By this time, probably,” answered the warden; “one 
week ago he lay mortally ill in the Memorial Hospital.” 

The suddenness of the news overcame me; I fainted, 
the collapse aided, perhaps, by enervation incidental on 
confinement. When I came to I lay on a lounge in a room 
adjoining the office. 


140 


OUR BROTHER’S CHILD, 


Some hours later Gertrude came, her face wreathed in 
smiles, her hand holding the writ of freedom. ‘ ‘Come,” 
she said, ‘ ‘your convalescence will be shorter in the free 
air.” With her hand in mine, with her sweet face look- 
ing up to me as tears of joy welled from her eyes, and mine, 
we walked down the gravel road to the station, and that 
night Mr. and Mrs. Earle, snugly ensconced in a Pullman 
berth, started on a honeymoon that will not end this side 
of the grave. 


IN PERPETUITY. 


No sacrifice is wasted, for the God 
Who even notes the sparrows as they fall, 
Takes to account each deed of human love, 
Holds in perpetuity our actions all. 
Weakness, mistakes or ignorance may be 
Mixed with the action as alloy with gold; 
But from the pure the base will drop away 
Like withered sepals as the flowers unfold. 



THE QUICKENING. 


Jefferson Owen carried within his breast a tumultuous 
heart, as many another has done, and as many another 
will do in futile endeavor to smother the promptings of 
conscience. At first the secret did not bear heavily, but 
later it became burdensome. 

Owen was in Ohio; back in Pennsylvania — somewhere 
— was a girl, just where he did not know. Had he been 
asked he would have named the wrong place, not inten- 
tionally, however. Several things had occurred of which 
he knew not. And between these distances lay circum- 
stances and — regret. This for the past; of the present 
the following: 

In his endeavor to widen the distance already interven- 
ing Jefferson was not alone; a companion in iniquity shared 
his travel but not his sensitiveness. It was awkward 
traveling, for Owen had left suddenly, without prepara- 
tion; without coin. But the desire to maintain Freedom 
to an extent buoyed the fugitive — allusion meant only to 
one, since of the other we have but passing glance. 

With fingers crooked and tense to the snapping point 
Jefferson clung to a rod running in the direction of gravi- 
tation from the car-roof forward and above to the chains 
rusted and loose beneath. In never ending lines two 
silver streaks slipped gleaming below them out into the 
beyond, the faint clickety! clickety! clickety! of the fast 
freight’s wheels sounding monotonously the ever-recurring 
plates. 

“This is h — 1!” Owen started, looking miserably at his 
companion. The smoke-filled, cinder-laden, rushing whirl- 
ing air forced the sentence back into his throat; his lips 
moved inarticulately. “Wonder if it’ll ever stop?” he 


AND OTHER STORIES. 


M3 

shouted, but his fellow-traveler blinked at the smoke and 
burning cinders and said nothing. 

Houses in groups and singly rushed up and disappeared; 
the cattle-filled cars at the front added their filthy stench 
to air already on the verge of unbearable; a brakeman 
ran swiftly over them to the rear. Owen’s companion 
reached to a rung above him and climbed to the roof. ‘ ‘Com- 
ing?” he bawled, but he alone heard. 

Night was fast falling. In the fields a twinkling light 
gleamed star-like here and there, becoming more frequent as 
the mile boards sped by. At last it stopped. From below 
came hoarse grindings and miniature displays of pyrotech- 
nics; Owen climbed stiffly to the track side. The fast de- 
capod panted farther forward, quenching its huge thirst from 
a tank nearby. A bright blaze sputtered cheerily at the em- 
bankment’s base; thither the fugitive went, swinging his 
arms wildly for circulation. A solitary knight of the road 
lounged comfortably by the blazing sticks, his dirty, bearded 
face almost ebony in color from lack of cleansing and accum- 
ulated tan. A tomato can sizzled and gave to the chill air 
a nondescript aroma the result of environment. Drops 
of grease from a curling piece of bacon sputtered among 
the embers. 

Owen squatted in the grass. ‘ ‘Will you share up, pard ? ” 
he asked, shaking yet with cold and uncongenial travel. 
‘ ‘I shall go mad with hunger if you don’t.” The fellow 
looked at him curiously. ‘ ‘I’d have jumped if it hadn’t 
stopped when it did,” Owen went on; ‘ ‘the rushing, roar- 
ing thing made me sick.” 

The tramp got up and took the sizzling stuff from the 
fire, spreading it carefully on a clean newspaper. ‘ ‘Why 
aren’t you at home, then?” 

“Why! yes, why!” repeated Owen, gulping at the hot 
liquid, and astonished at the man’s linguistical incongruity 
with his surroundings. 

Owen was young and open-hearted; secrecy was not 


144 


OUR BROTHER’S CHILD, 


yet a part of his nature. The other listened silently, 
attentively to his recital. The whip-poor-wills circled 
above them in the semi-darkness; the slow exhaust of a 
heavy freight awoke echoes in the deep forest through 
which the glinting rails trailed a narrow way. 

For a moment neither spoke. The bearded one rose to 
pick additional fuel for the waning light. He sat down 
again and slowly filled a pipe dirty as himself. 4 ‘Justice 
is retributive, my boy,” he drawled slowly, almost inaudibly, 
neither turning nor lifting his head, his eyes resting on the 
increasing blaze with a far-away look, void of expression. 
He spoke very deliberately, as if weighing each sentence 
before uttering it. 4 4 Justice is retributive,” he repeated. 
“Twenty years ago it happened, and it is still retributive. 
She never wrote, and I never knew the fullness of my 
wrong. Oh, God! I never knew!” 

It was the cry of a heart doomed to anguish. The man 
stared intensely into the dusk; an owl hooted at the fierce, 
white glare of a coming headlight cleaving the distant 
blackness. 

4 T was careless and carefree and undecided. While I 
hung to brakebeams she nursed a new life in tearful silence. 
Yet I loved her. Oh, God, I loved her! At this day I 
cannot understand why I went away, or why I went back. 
But I did; to find her gone, and the new life flickered out 
for want of care.” 

4 ‘Perhaps in your case some other man was — ” sug- 
gested Owen. 

Like a snarling dog the other was on his feet. 4 ‘Take 
that back! Take that back or I’ll kill you!” A shining 
barrel glistened wickedly in the firelight. 

Owen sat at a farther distance; the other man once more 
sat down. 

“Another!” he resumed; 4 ‘no, never! I alone was the 
murderer; the murderer!” a rising inflection ending his 
self-condemnation in tremulous tones. 4 ‘I killed her, 


AND OTHER STORIES. 


145 


yes, sir, I, but in a manner of which the law takes slight 
cognizance, and does not erect the deserved gallows.” 

He was still holding the revolver, but his passion was 
gone down; his voice grew low and his words soft. 

“But another Law has punished; oh, how it has pun- 
ished!” 

The cone of the fire collapsed and threw long flashes of 
flame where before had been naught but live embers. In 
the distance a longer flame just as suddenly illumed the 
night. Greater and fiercer it grew, until the sky above 
was a complete arch of fiery reflection. 

‘ ‘That’s good-by to my bed,” softly drawled Owen’s 
companion, pointing to an embanked couch near the fire, 
consisting mainly of withered grass and newspapers. 

Behind them the rails carried faintly the click-click, 
click-click of an approaching something, they knew not 
what. An instant later it stopped by the side of the tank, 
and filled to overflowing several barrels grouped closely. 
With tacit consent Owen and his companion climbed aboard, 
and whizzed away into the black smoke. 

By the track sides the dry grass shrank from the heated • 
air; farther the tree trunks already flamed in flashing rows. 
The men quivered and gasped spasmodically as they worked, 
not the laziest among them the Stranger. Ahead and on 
each side the wall of fire grew ; the leader called incessantly, 
his voice scarcely audible above the confused noises. Tree 
trunks snapped and burst as with the boom of distant ar- 
tillery. “Steady, there! Careful, fellows!” he called, and 
for answer they plunged more fiercely, desperately against 
the overmastering flames. 

In their excitement they saw not the closing of the only 
exit: the flames had leaped and joined across the narrow 
way. The foreman shouted lustily, and with lowered heads 
they passed the whirlwind of fire and smoke. All were un- 
injured save Owen. Something, perhaps a falling limb, 
Struck him as he ran, He reeled for a moment, and fell. 


i 4 6 OUR BROTHER’S CHILD, 

Then something still heavier fell upon him and he knew no 
more. 

******** 

Owen awoke in what seemed an improvised hospital, 
at least there were cots enough, and nearly all occupied, 
to give the place that dignity. He opened his eyes, his 
face bearing a puzzled expression, to see an aunt he had 
thought two hundred miles away. The surprise was mutual : 
hers at his sudden return to consciousness. It all came 
back slowly. 

‘ ‘Your name was among the injured in yesterday’s 
paper,” she explained. ‘ ‘They had Fred’s name, but I 
knew it was you, for I found his coat gone and yours in 
its place the day you — you — ” 

The woman had unconsciously come upon an embar- 
rassing subject. Owen groaned, and a nurse, white dressed, 
came to loosen bandages she thought were painful; his 
brow grew wet, and she gently removed the beads with 
moistened linen. His aunt turned away her eyes. Pres- 
ently a surgeon came and gave good report. 

‘ ‘I must leave now,” said the woman, tremblingly. 
“When you are stronger Fred or your Uncle Bob will come.” 

She left a package of dainties on the cot. It was a day 
or two later when Owen removed its cover. A leaf from 
a writing tablet — closely written and tear-stained — dropped 
out with other things. Its upper corner bore her name, 
its address his aunt’s; Margaret had been as their own 
daughter, even as he and Fred had received sons’ attention 
since the demise of their mother. Mrs. Griffiths loved 
Margaret dearly, and the way things had turned pained 
her. She had pleaded, coaxed, finally threatened, in a 
futile endeavor to overcome Jefferson’s desire. 

Convalescence was rapid. Two weeks after Mrs. 
Griffiths’ return home she received a letter to say Owen 
was coming back ‘ ‘to get completely well.” The follow- 
ing day his Uncle Bob went to the Ohio town. 


AND OTHER STORIES. 


i47 


Somebody was strumming a lively air on Mrs. Griffiths’ 
heirloom an old-fashioned piano — as the two men walked 
amid a heavy downpour of rain to the sitting-room door. 
A lamp, red shaded, cast cheerful rays over the center of 
the parlor, and streamed partly out through the drawn 
curtains. A goodly company were gathered in the room 
whose door opened to admit Owen and Mr. Griffiths. 

The young man was in a mood which above all asks for 
kindness and sympathy. He greeted Margaret rather 
awkwardly, then turning to his aunt and the Reverend 
Lewis became himself again. Few of those foregathered 
knew the real reason of mental disturbance plainly evident, 
attributing it to the recent injuries. 

Margaret and Owen exhibited toward each other a con- 
strained courtesy, which knowing ones, following the usual 
course of men and women, and deducing their conclusions 
from certain hypothesis, accounted for to their own sat- 
isfaction. 

The solemnity of the wedding was soon over, giving place 
to merriment accompanied with certain suspicious attention 
to the bride. Well in the following day the company broke. 
Mr. and Mrs. Griffiths had retired immediately on the 
last one’s departure, whom Owen had accompanied to the 
gate. Margaret was alone in the parlor. 

Outside it still rained heavily. The black fields ad- 
joining the Griffiths’ home were swept with the wet wind, 
and the swinging lanterns of the late guests wending their 
several ways across them intensified the black shadows. 
The huge black hills on the opposite bank of the Kiski- 
minetas loomed darkly, coifed with ghostly vapor rising 
from the warmer waters flowing at their base. But within 
all was peace and subdued joy. Margaret’s hours of an- 
guish and uncertainty were past. She looked up as Jef- 
ferson entered with an indifference he felt it hard to assume. 

Together they stood for an appreciable time, their 
conversation intermittently broken by pauses and ellipses 


148 


OUR BROTHER’S CHILD, 


eloquent in their meaning. Their voices grew very low, 
and finally ceased; but eyes sent messages of love needing 
no articulation. The fire had burned down, but they 
heeded it not; for hidden fire warmed either heart; in- 
ward light illumined each soul. 

Margaret leaned gently, tired, against her husband; 
both were yet standing, his arm around her waist, her 
hands clasped in his. Softly he pressed her to him to kiss 
her, and through every fibre of both surged a tumult of 
silent, joyous emotion: mother and father had simul- 
taneously felt the first strong sign of the unborn child. That 
moment life took to itself a fuller, better meaning for 
Jefferson Owen. 



THE FILLER ON FURNACE ‘A.’ 


‘Not heard of him? then you’re a stranger here, 1 ' 
The general manager said. 

1 ‘Those toil-hardened men will shed a tear 
And for some the first in many a year, 

Out of love for the one who’s dead. 

‘ ‘The crippled form that lies on yonder bier, 

To be laid to its rest to-day, 

Was a man who was known both far and near 
By a name old and young held sacred and dear: 
‘The filler on furnace ‘A.’ 

‘ ‘ ’Twas a day such as this (clouds hung like a pall), 
The incident happened, when, 

‘ The filler on furnace ‘ A ’ showed us all 
That whatever the lot to a man may befall, 

He can be the bravest of men. 

‘ ‘The furnace had ‘hung,’ and the ore as it fell 
Held the gas in great volumes, 

Which was finally loosed and up went the ‘bell;’ 

And the gas with a roar — to some the death knell — 
Filled the air with deadly fumes. 

1 ‘The men at the top made a dash for below; 

To delay meant certain death; 

Already the weakest had fallen, and so 

With a haste born of fear they down the rods go, 

Not daring to draw a breath. 


OUR BROTHER’S CHILD, 


‘ ‘But near to the edge one stopped; looked aghast; 

An unconscious form lay there! 

A few moments and flames that were gathering fast 
Would destroy him who lingered — all hope would be 
past 

Of gaining the pure air. 

t ‘Yet dearer than life was the love for his brother; 

So he stooped to bear him away; 

Again and again the flames leaped to smother, 

And muttering a prayer to the dear ‘Holy Mother,’ 

He slid from the top of ‘A.’ 

‘ ‘His burden was great and the speed so fast 
That the cruel rods burnt through 
The flesh and bone and with wicked haste, 

Destroyed the limbs that were to last 
For hard work a long life through. 

‘ ‘But the brother lives; he stands over there; 

A strong young man to-day. 

Do you wonder he sheds a silent tear 
As he looks the last time on one so dear 
To him and to all who work around here, 

‘The filler on furnace ‘A’?” 



NO CONTINUITY IN NATURE. 


Does the world seem black with darkness ? 

Are you overwhelmed with grief ? 

Has your sorrow long been with you ? 
Perhaps ’tis recent, severe, brief. 

But, dear friend, ’twill not continue; 

Sorrow will not e’er remain : 

The darkness is but passing cloud, 

The sun will shine again. 

Nature knows no continuity, 

’Tis her way to change around, 

Leaving sunlight in the shadowed 
Gloomy places that abound. 

Darkened skies of cold, bleak Winter 
By her bounty pass and bring 
In their train the bright and beautiful 
Sunlit days of early Spring. 

A quiet eve, serene and golden 
With its haze of shimmering light, 
Inevitably follows after 

Days of cyclonic fury, bright 

With the wild and vivid flashings 
Which the firmament seems to tear, 

Yet these riotous moods of nature 
Purify the sulphurous air. 


152 OUR BROTHER’S CHILD. 

So the pangs of grief and sorrow 
Purify the troubled soul; 

As the stormy, inky blackness 
When the thunders roar and roll, 

Passes o’er and leaves the brightness 
Of the sunlit, cheerful day, 

So will time assuage your anguish 
And the sorrow bear away. 



THE BETTER INHERITANCE. 


Luke 8:14. 

Why should I let the worldly cares 
Subdue my soul with grief ? 

Why sacrifice my health — my life 
For that which by some thief 
Stolen perhaps may be; 

Far better that my peace I make 
With God by righteous life 

Than have the world’s great hoards of wealth, 
And doom my soul to torturous strife 
For all eternity. 



SABBATH IN STEEL DISTRICT. 


Still, peaceful vale lies stretched before mine eyes: 

A manufacturing and pastoral scene; 

A prettier picture scarce could art devise, 

Than on a Summer’s day can here be seen. 

Dividing grassy slopes in verdure green, 

Oft dotted by a browsing herd that shuns 

The mid-day sun, so furnace-like between 
The shades — a winding river runs. 

’Tis peaceful Sabbath, and the lowing kine 
Are grazing o’er the undulating hills, 

While up and down the long slow freighters twine, 
Carrying their heavy burden to the mills. 

But for the noise from these the vale would be 
Almost as silent as ere white man came: 

Industry’s quiet; no pall of smoke I see, 

Nor from the towering stacks the wonted flame. 

No rumbling emanates from out the place 
Which on the week-day teems with business; 

Where sturdy men, bare-armed and sweated face, 

Draw ingots, ‘ ‘sheets” and ‘ ‘pairs” from the furnace. 

No sound reverberates; o’er all a ban 

By Sabbath placed; stilled wheels and powerful rod; 

And Nature seems in unity with man 
In paying tribute to an all-wise God. 


THE CROSSING OF THE VALE. 


Increase, O Father, my oft tremulous faith; 

Let my vexed spirit feel, whate’er betides, 

That Thou art with me, even unto death; 

Bridge Thou the vale that heaven and earth divides. 

’Mid reverie a sweetly solemn thought 
Vibrates my being like a bell’s sweet tone — 

O’erwhelms the cares with which my life is fraught: 

Each eventide is one day nearer home. 

Does it ever occur to you how near we walk to eternity 
in our daily life? Does the impression ever occur that 
the finite part of our being holds the infinite part by a very 
slender thread, literally speaking? 

When we are about to take a journey, even though it be 
but a short one, we are careful to prepare beforehand. 
We anticipate the emergencies, the vexations, the pleasures, 
the sights and friends to be seen and to the best of our 
abilities arrange our affairs accordingly. 

Yet there is a journey for which, but too often the trav- 
eler is unprepared. We hear the healthy man or woman 
say, ‘ T am in no danger of dying; never felt better in my 
life.” How little reckon they what a day may bring 
forth. 

There is an indefinable intuition in the human mind 
that somehow we will escape the fate that befell our neigh- 
bor. We see the angel of death visit first this, and then 
that family in our vicinity, and although we know our 
turn will certainly come, the indefinable intuition tells us 
the time is remote. The brakeman sees his fellow-work- 
man crushed into a shapeless mass, yet he cannot realize 


OUR BROTHER’S CHILD, 


156 

his propinquity to the same fate. This is well in a certain 
way. Were fear to possess the miner, the railroader or 
the many who work in imminent danger of death their 
work would be very poorly done, and in fact there would 
be a lack of such workmen. But how much more should 
the fact be impressed upon such minds that unceasing 
preparation for the inevitable journey is imperative. 

We know not what an hour or a day may bring forth. 
A perusal of the daily news brings astonishingly clear the 
fact that the danger of sudden death lurks everywhere. 
Not only in the mine the mill or on the rails, but in the quiet 
home. 

A few years ago a lady living in the city of Pittsburgh 
was told by her physician that the only means of prolong- 
ing her life was by removal to quieter surroundings; some- 
where in the country where she would not meet with the 
excitement and noise incidental to city life. She went to 
such a place, where the occasional blowing of a thresher’s 
whistle and the rattle of the farm wagon were the only noises 
to break the almost monotonous quiet. Here surely she 
would be safe. Here there was no excitement to snap 
the slender thread of life. In its regular rounds the thresher 
reached the farmhouse in which she made her home. The 
grain was pouring into the sacks and quick hands threw 
incessantly into the hungry maw the unbound sheaves. 
The lady referred to sat in a shady nook sewing when one 
of the little children ran up to her shouting; * ‘Sister’s 
fell into the thresher! ” The alarm proved to be unfounded, 
and “sister” escaped with a few bruises. Shortly after- 
ward the housewife on calling the lady to dinner received 
no response. After repeated calls she went closer to find 
the woman dead. ‘ ‘Heart failure, due to excitement,” 
said the physician. 

Death stalks beside us everywhere. He is no stranger 
amid the festivities of life nor yet to the quiet solitudes. 
He is no respector of persons or places. How important 


AND OTHER STORIES. 


15 ) 

then that we arrange our daily life so as to be ever ready. 
Like soldiers expecting the order to march, we must be 
continually ‘ ‘under arms.” Come when it will, the order 
of the Grim General must be obeyed. And in child- 
hood, in buoyant youth, in mature manhood and woman- 
hood or old age the order to depart comes too suddenly 
ofttimes to admit of any preparations that are not already 
made. 



POLITICS. 


A thousand people live in Podunktown, 

Nine eighty five of these are common folks; 
Fifteen are men who never wear a frown, 

They’re always full of smiles and local jokes. 
The world is rosy for the latter class, 

They draw their pay quite reg’lar on the first; 
All local meetings they attend en masse, 

And other would-be ‘ ‘fathers” get the worst. 

An understanding runs between them thus: 

‘ ‘This term I’ll run, next time it shall be you.” 
So things go on without the slightest fuss; 

They office hold the years through and through. 
Some people say such things ought not to be — 
They claim the‘ ‘ring’s” just full of dirty tricks; 
But neither ‘ ‘rings” nor ‘ ‘tricks” in it I see; 

It’s unadulterated politics. 



LOVE UNDEFILED. 


Sweet is the love that parent has for child ; 
Mysterious something drawing soul to soul ; 

Love such as God must have — pure, undefiled — 
For all his children calling this world ‘ ‘home.” 



COMPARISON. 


When the world seems dark and gloomy, 

And life is sparing of its joys, 

When troubles have come to the happy home 
That its wonted peace destroys, 

There is ever the thought to give you hope — 
Matters not what you go through: 

The world has one who is going or gone 
Through far worse trouble than you. 



A PRAYER. 

O God ! let we, whose lot has by Thy grace been cast 
Among these hills and vales of plentitude, 

Forget not midst the blessings poured on us so fast 
That we have cause for greatest gratitude. 

Our humble efforts have, and will the harvests bring — 
Foster industry — with life’s luxuries fill 
These homes; but may we e’er remember no blessings 
Crown man’s efforts without the Master’s will. 


YOUNG WOMANHOOD. 


There is a time when Nature combines art 
With labor to endow, instill, impart 
By divers ways 

Love, kindliness and prettiness combined 
With grace of form and purity of mind 
Falling like rays 

Of pleasant sunshine through the dewy leaves ; 
’Tis when she works by will of God and weaves 
Fabric as thine. 



LIMITATION. 


Ah, World! thy motives most are mercenary, 

E’en love and life thou’dst measure with thy gold ; 
Thinkest thou with all thy hoards of wealth 
Canst change one debased heart and make it pure ? 
Canst create love where love did ne’er exist, 

Or bring the pulsing life back to a form 
That lies inanimate in the grasp of death? 

No! thine is not the power to do aught else 
But pamper to the sordid minds of men. 

’Tis not for thee to give us life or love; 

Great is thy power but ’tis too weak for that. 

By thee transient whims are satisfied; 

But there thy power ends ; that which exists 

Throughout eternity can only come 

From that Great Source' that e’en created thee. 



LIFE’S ARCHITECTURE. 


How ill-befit the words, * ‘If such had been!” 
Each soul’s the builder for the life it makes, 

Be’t good or ill. 

Each deed like stone is laid, and in between, 

Like mortar holding fast, each thought creates 
A bind until, 

The structure reared, the semblance plainly shows 
How drawn its plans. So’t is in mortal life. 

We may deride 

Ways circumspect in Youth, but Age well knows 
’Tis best for day when strongest is the strife: 
Life’s eventide. 



THE OPTIMIST ETERNAL. 


When death shall close my earthly eyes 
And through the ethereal skies 
Its way my spirit wings, 

My fondest hope is but to be 
Companion through eternity 
To one who e’er joy brings. 

When through the boundless realms of space 
Where cloud, nor mist, nor storms deface 
The clear, blue azure sky, 

If guides I choose the mysteries 
To show, past where e’er mortal eyes 
Have looked or e’er can pry, 

I’ll choose those noble souls who here 
In this oft vexed, mundane sphere 
Saw in the basest, good. 

What joy eternal theirs to know — 

Exquisite sights to see, and show, 

“Past Jordan’s swelling flood!” 




FROM THE TOMB. 


An Easter Story. 

For two hours James Ell wood had profaned the edifice 
in which he and Miss Graham sat. Try as he would his 
thoughts persistently reverted to her, and the words, solemn 
as befitted the occasion, fell deaf upon his ears. He was 
only aroused from reverie by the congregation rising as 
one to sing 

“When I survey the wonderous cross, 

On which the Prince of glory died.” 

It was Wednesday preceding Easter Sunday. The couple 
had come from the mining village to attend this service, 
and, be Blanche’s intention what it may, Ellwood’s, I 
must confess as I hope for eternal pardon, was far from 
befitting the occasion. His whole thought was of her; 
his whole desire to be by her side there and the four miles 
to and from the church. 

The service, the building, the apparel of the worshippers 
were crude in his eyes, used as he had been to attend Trinity 
when at home. But henceforth no place on earth was 
“home” for Ell wood without her. For three months 
she had been at once the sunshine and gloom of his life. 
For three of the shortest months in all of his twenty-five 
years her home had been his home, her will the prompter 
of his every action. 

Before I relate the incidents leading to Ellwood be- 
coming incumbent on the hospitality of the Grahams, 
and which ultimately led to the most exciting episode of 
his life, shall I describe that humble home as I saw it ? 


AND OTHER STORIES. 


167 


Agreed. Then enter with me a tidy parlor, comfortably 
but not luxuriously, furnished. A cottage organ fills one 
corner, a bookcase the other. A huge table and a fireplace 
fill out the space allotted to other things than chairs. A 
heavy ingrain carpet covers the floor, embellished by a large 
rug near the fire, the additional covering serving as an 
admirable couch for a half grown Newfoundland dog, 
and the two “ babies ” of the Graham household — rosy- 
cheeked lads of about nine years. Outside it is cold and 
blustery, the wind, howling dismally, carrying sleet and 
rain past the roof above us to cover the culm banks beyond 
in an icy coat. Mr. and Mrs. Graham, their daughter 
Blanche, Ellwood, the mining engineer, and myself com- 
plete the number. 

Graham sat complacently smoking — I saw him through 
the window before I entered, but was surprised to see him 
picking up from the floor his shattered pipe, evidently let 
fall at the moment I rapped at the door. I had knocked 
loudly, for the atmosphere without was disagreeable, while 
that within seemed cheerful and inviting. The old man’s 
face was ashen as he lifted it to throw the pieces into the 
fire, but soon resumed its color as I stated my mission. 

Mrs. Graham sat in a rocking chair, a large family bible 
opened in front of her. Miss Graham and Ellwood were 
at the opposite side of the table from the elder woman, 
intent on perusing, together, a pictorial volume. 

But unruffled as seemed this family life there ap- 
peared to the close observer a furtiveness engendered by 
some secret moral, rather than physical, cause. Graham’s 
hair was unnaturally gray — almost to whiteness — for one 
of his years, while the face of his wife gave evidence of deep 
and long-sustained sorrow or anxiety. 

But, to repeat, the family was uncommonly happy, 
to all appearances, at peace with themselves and the 
world. Alas! How often do appearances belie the truth! 
Surely this was life, unsullied by the vanities, the shallow 


OUR BROTHER’S CHILD, 


1 68 

contentions, the avarice and pride all too predominant 
in some homes. 

If within those walls there remained a discontented mind, 
that mind was Ellwood’s. Several times during the pre- 
ceding months he had begged the privilege of becoming 
a member of the household. Firm and persistent had been 
the denials, a note of extreme sadness adding pathos to 
the young woman’s plea that it was impossible to grant the 
favor he craved. This only made Ellwood the more per- 
sistent to remove the cause, of which he doubted not the 
existence. But from Blanche he could elicit no further 
information, and both parents were equally silent. 

The engineer’s assignment threatened to end far too 
soon for Ellwood. There remained but one district to 
survey — a portion of the mine from which pillars had been 
withdrawn, making the work not only difficult but dangerous. 

But to return to the church. The service was ended. 
Blanche took her lover’s arm and together they started 
toward the village. Their conversation — of everything but 
the season — was kept up chiefly by Ellwood. The snow 
beneath their feet was slushy, but to them the road, the 
sky seemed transcendent: glorious. 

The flickering lights in the village twinkled nearby. 
The moon, shooting its rays occasionally through cloud- 
banks, hid for a moment to hide the purloining of a kiss. 
She did not rebuke him. Freeing herself Blanche burst 
into a passionate torrent of tears. 

Try as he would Ellwood could not console her; neither 
could he exact the cause of her distress. He pleaded 
until the cold grew so intense that both were compelled 
to go indoors. 

Probe as he would Ellwood’s mind refused light on the 
problem. Theory after theory, like a house of cards, col- 
lapsed in turn. 

On the following morning Ellwood and his men went 
into the mine. He directed Wilson — the mine foreman-^ 


AND OTHER STORIES. 


169 


to lead them to the farthest extremity of the level. Bar- 
ring accident Ellwood expected to finish the survey before 
night. 

Alone he traversed the gangway to a box in which were 
placed some instruments he needed. The place was un- 
canny in its grave-like stillness, and shadows flitted grimly 
over the mine floor. For a few minutes Ellwood sat deep 
in meditation. With his fingers he brushed at the brass 
bars of the safety-lamp, while his mind traversed again, 
with her, the woods and roads encircling the village, each 
stroll an epic of joyous memory. He remembered espe- 
cially one Sunday, when one of Spring’s early warm days 
had made walking a pleasure, how they had stood over a 
dark, ragged hole — seen frequently in the mining region — 
seemingly bottomless, but which ended on one of the upper 
levels of the mine beneath. Ellwood remembered it viv- 
idly, since there were associated with it stories of stern 
tragedies of the underground. One had brought immediate 
sorrow to the Graham home, for there had been a brother 
near her own age. She told the stories in the same im- 
passioned way the fisherfolk tell of the passing of a son, 
a father, the natural self-control fostered by frequent con- 
tact with life’s sterner phases covering all outward 
appearance of the deep sympathy beneath the surface. 

The last faint rumble of the wagon containing the sur- 
veying party died in the abysmal distance, and Ellwood 
was completely alone with that Stillness already become 
part of his life. Presently he heard the ‘ ‘click” of a nib- 
bling rat — so he thought. 

‘ ‘Click! click!” it came several times, and Ellwood turned. 

Amid the dim shadows he could discern nothing, nor 
could he hear the usual scurrying incidental to the rat’s 
progress over the uneven and coal-littered mine floor. 

“Click!” it went again, this time accompanied by a 
slight bump and slivering of the roof directly overhead. . 

Ellwood grew warrantably alarmed. “What if it is 


170 


OUR BROTHER’S CHILD, 


a creep?” was his first thought; the next of his companions 
in the far distant heading. The stories Blanche had 
told, coupled to those he had heard of an evening in 
the Company’s store, loomed portentously. 

The “clicks” became frequent; the bumps louder. 
Thoroughly alarmed Ellwood returned the surveying 
articles to the box and ran in the direction his men were 
working. Some of the younger men would have kept at 
work. Like himself this was their first assignment since 
leaving college, and the enthusiasm of youth allied to the 
novelty of their labor overcame the discretion natural to 
those of maturer years and longer experience with the 
subtle dangers of the underground. 

Ellwood strode quickly to the mine foreman. 

‘ ‘You’re sure you didn’t get frightened and imagine it, 
Jim?” smiled the pit-boss, grimly. “I’ll go back with 
you, anyway,” he added without waiting for Ellwood’s 
angry retort. 

The mine foreman, better than any other, knew the im- 
port of Ellwood’s information, if it were true. But many 
times the same‘ ‘signs” passed by without serious result. 

Very slowly, and to the impatient Ellwood, aggravat- 
ingly, Wilson went ahead, and, turning abruptly dis- 
appeared in a side heading. 

This cut off nearly a quarter mile of travel. 

At its end he stopped, and kicking an opening for his 
body, crawled through a temporary brattice. 

The loosened boards went rolling down the chamber, 
their dull, booming reverberations sounding ghostly in 
the mine’s stillness, echoing again and again in the man- 
made caverns. 

“Stay there till I come back!” he called to Ellwood, 
who had already crawled through the opening. 

Wondering, Ellwood stood there, watching the last ray 
of light disappear as Wilson went lower and lower. 

But he hadn’t long to wait or wonder. 


AND OTHER STORIES. 


171 

Far swifter than it had descended the surveyor saw 
the tiny light coming up the breast. 

Breathlessly Wilson climbed through onto the roadway. 

“Run, Ellwood!” he gasped, hoarsely, “for your life 
depends on it!” 

The engineer did not sense the extremity of danger; 
he stood still, watching the other struggling to regain his 
breath. 

“Run, man, for the shaft!” cried Wilson, again, catch- 
ing Ellwood roughly by the arm. 

The tragedy of the preceding moments had apparently 
blunted Ellwood’s perception of danger. Either that or 
else he had determined on sacrificing his own chance of 
escape to facilitate that of his comrades. 

But Wilson — with the characteristic bravery of the Eng- 
lish-speaking miner, than whom exists none more willing 
to risk limb or life for a comrade — had planned otherwise. 

‘ Til get ’em,” he muttered, anticipating Ellwood’s 
exclamation. Then, turning and seeing Ellwood’s light 
still coming slowly he exclaimed, with a fiery oath as pre- 
fix: “Run! you idiot! !” 

In an instant Ellwood’s mind was made up: he would 
live or die with the others! He walked slowly out onto the 
main road, along which his companions and Wilson must 
come on their way to the shaft. Below him, in the great, 
open spaces, he could distinctly hear the deep “boom!” 
“boom!” as millions of tons of rock and earth crushed 
from their places the under-lying slate, to go thundering 
down and seal for all time the levels below. The floor on 
which he stood shook and heaved like a vomiting monster; 
the displaced air rushed with the speed of a tornado along 
the narrow space in which Ellwood was traveling, to 
return an instant later in lesser force. Time and again 
he of necessity clutched at the roof-timbers to save himself 
from being thrown forcibly to the floor. 

Thus Ellwood stood for a seemingly interminable time, 


172 


OUR BROTHER’S CHILD, 


his mind swayed by fear and indecision; tossed hither 
and thither like the coal-stones at his feet by each suc- 
ceeding blast. Before him, in the converging darkness 
timbers groaned, snapped and parted, freeing by their 
descent flakes of roof many feet in length. Rapidly the 
roadway was filling — closing the only avenue of escape 
from a living tomb! 

The noise became deafening; the dust-clouds made 
the air suffocating. To essay the shaft road now were 
but to meet death in a more painful way; Ellwood retraced 
his steps. The roar of gravitation precluded his hearing 
aught else, and he lifted his head, bent to the better pick 
his way between unfilled roadbed, in time to see, swing- 
ing like fireflies in the distance, the lamps of the engineers. 

‘ ‘It’s no use running,” stammered Ellwood, as they 
came closer, ‘ ‘the ‘main’ is closed!” 

The surveyors stopped. 

‘ ‘Come, men, perhaps we can pass it yet,” urged Wilson, 
‘ ‘or else,” he muttered, ‘ ‘this is our grave!” 
v Alas! how true — for him. 

The race was on again. Ellwood, enthused by Wilson’s 
optimism, ran also. Many of the older men were badly 
put to to keep up. Nearer and nearer to the critical place 
they went. To the right falling rock thundered like artil- 
lery; behind and before them fell constantly pieces of 
slate. 

“It’ll be a close shave, men!” shouted Wilson, still 
in the lead. 

They had passed the side heading; a few hundred feet 
and 

Wilson stopped suddenly. Intrepidly he crawled over 
the heaps of rocks and held his light forward at arm’s 
length to light his gaze. 

But no black space appeared; all was white, tom, crushed, 
powdered white filled every foot of Egyptian darkness, 
nd close! 


AND OTHER STORIES. 


*73 

‘ ‘It’s all up,” said Wilson, quietly, and turned to crawl 
back. 

A sudden bump, that seemed to the imprisoned men 
to shake the very foundation on which they stood, dis- 
lodged a long, thick piece of s’ate directly above Wilson, 
and with a sickening thud pinned him to the mass below. 

Ell wood was first to reach him. Tenderly they placed 
him by the roadside, where an hour later he returned to 
brief consciousness. Looking around at the dejected 
group he exclaimed: * Tm lucky, fellows.” • 

They sighed, pityingly. 

The injured man groaned as he attempted to turn on 
the coats — rough bed, but kind, made by the engineers. 

“I’m lucky,” he repeated; “I’ll soon be gone.” 

The youngest among them understood. 

Ellwood knelt beside him. 

“Is there no way out, Jimmy?” he asked. 

Wilson smiled. The blow had apparently paralyzed 
beyond pain — when it was still — the injured body. 

“Yes,” he replied; “the way I’m goin’.” Then, con- 
tinuing, * ‘Got a piece o’ paper, Ellwood?” 

The latter searched among his pockets and found one. 

“A pencil?” 

This, too, was produced. 

Almost savagely the dying man grasped at Ellwood ’s 
lamp. 

‘ ‘Give me that piece o’ slate,” he commanded. 

Ellwood reached and laid beside him a smooth-topped 
stone, and an instant later Wilson was writing, slowly. 
He stopped a moment and gazed, his face pallid with 
approaching dissolution, at Ellwood. 

“You— you— live at her house?” he stammered. 

Ellwood, for the moment not sensing his meaning re- 
plied, ‘ ‘I’m boarding at Graham’s.” 

Wilson did not answer. He wrote painfully, each pencil 
stroke becoming slower. He reached upward, eager in 
his desire to atone a wrong. 


174 


OUR BROTHER’S CHILD, 


‘ ‘Take— this — to — Graham,” he gasped, and died. 

Sadly Ellwood placed the paper in his pocket, and with 
those about him turned his thoughts to other things. 

On top all was commotion. The noise of subterranean 
disturbance had made itself heard, and felt, in some cot- 
tages distant from the village. 

Hundreds were soon gathered near the sinking surface, 
among them Blanche, her eyes red from constant, silent 
weeping. At the shaft each succeeding hour detracted 
from hope slight even at first. The rescuers brought 
dismal news of the fall’s extensiveness. 

Thus came the night. 

Some of the imprisoned men sat silent by the rocky 
wall; others paced the dull prison in tense anxiety. Food 
had been taken from each pail to be used collectively and 
only in extremity. One lamp alone sufficed for light. 

Ellwood, fatigued more by stress of thought than phy- 
sical exertion, lay in a comatose condition. The air was 
strongly charged with carbonic gas; each mind conse- 
quently was dull, sleepy. 

Ellwood’s thoughts wandered hither and thither, dwell- 
ing chiefly on the incidents in which Blanche had taken 
part. He went again to the little church, to the woods, 
to this gathering and to that, always with her, and his 
heart sank. Slowly there obtruded through the maze 
a mossy tree trunk, a deep, bottomless hole, whose top 
lay covered by tree roots and grass. A moment later he 
was on his feet, roused to full consciousness. Turning 
to those about him he exclaimed hopefully, exultantly: 
‘ ‘Men, follow me!” 

Several, spite of the tragic surroundings, laughed au- 
dibly, attributing Ellwood’s action to temporary aber- 
ration of the mind. It necessitated several minutes of 
earnest conversation and explanation to convince his 
auditors that sanity had not flown. 

‘ ‘If the hole opens onto this level,” Ellwood exclaimed, 
as they started, “we are saved!” 


AND OTHER STORIES. 


i75 


The others did not share his optimism, but they fol- 
lowed blindly. Almost as blindly Ellwood led, turning into 
this place, then that, only to return disheartened from 
each. He examined closely each fall for sign of gravel, 
for the night without was dark. 

Some of the men grew tired, cynical; the more after 
each disappointment. They began to drop back one by 
one until Ellwood was far ahead, so far that his light was 
barely discemable. 

Faintly, after an abrupt turn, the stragglers heard him 
cry, ‘ ‘Here it is! Here it is!” 

His light disappeared, and they ran rapidly onward. 

Far above them Ellwood was climbing, dislodging in his 
haste large pieces of strata. 

From below the engineers cried to him to come down. 
“Come down, Ellwood; you’ll be smashed!” 

For answer he went up and up, leaping from rock to rock, 
his clothes torn to shreds on their sharp edges. 

Fearful, the men below hesitated. The displacement 
of a small piece may have dislodged scores, hundreds of 
tons, and closed the opening, bringing certain death to 
all in it. Listening breathlessly they still heard Ellwood 
climbing, although his light, being above them, could not 
be seen. 

An interminable time seemed to elapse. Small pieces 
of various kinds of rock clattered noisily into the abyss 
at their feet. An instant later all was still— the climber 
had stopped. 

“Hey!” they heard faintly. Sound was nearly non- 
existent where Ellwood stood; his body alone filled the 
space; his breath came thick and fast against the ragged 
wall. 

And from below came the answer: ‘ ‘Hey!” 

‘ ‘This — is — the — place; follow — slowly — one at a time!” 

Half an hour later the last man stood in the wood, dense 
with brush and darkness. In the distance they could 


176 


OUR BROTHER’S CHILD, 


plainly discern moving figures among the lights still lin- 
gering about the falling earth, among them Blanche. 

A more astonished, almost unbelieving people were 
never gathered together since Emmaus. 

Around a cheerful fire at Graham’s Blanche and Ell- 
wood took seats. Arm in arm they had come with the 
crowd from the cave-in, happy in their several deliverances. 

Graham took the note eagerly; his wife laid down her 
spectacles and Bible, the reading of the latter being almost 
constant since apprisement of this latter calamity. Ell- 
wood had come to be looked upon as a son, and their 
grief was poignant. 

‘ ‘Read it, Father,” she urged. 

Graham unfolded the note, tremblingly; the old terror 
of the writer was long in dissipating. 

It read: 

‘ ‘It’s in a Box to the right of the trap-door in my old 
bedroom.” 

The mystery unfolded. 

The fire glowed cheerily, but not more so than loving 
hearts around it lightened by the lifting of an awesome 
dread. 

1 ‘He lived here with us when he was yet a fireboss,” 
Graham explained. “For a boarder he was all that any 
one would want: paid regularly, didn’t drink, not much. 
But he had some strange ways. Would go out at bed- 
time an’ not come back till momin’. Where he went, 
or what he did we didn’t know — until after the big strike. 
He come in one mornin’ the worse for liquor — that was 
the first time I had seen him drunk — with a box under 
his arm. He took it upstairs — we thought to his trunk. 
When he came down he sat there where you sit, Mr. Ell- 
wood, an’ said he wanted to marry Blanche.” 

The young woman’s face turned crimson, and she picked 
up her mother’s Bible ostensibly to read, but really to 
hide her confusion. 


AND OTHER STORIES. 


177 


‘We knowed Blanche didn’t like him — not well enough 
for that anyway — an’ we didn’t neither. His ways was 
too secret to take our daughter into. 

* ‘Well, that passed by. 

1 ‘Nearly at the end of the strike he come one day and 
showed me a handful of new dollars, an’ told me an’ Mother 
— we was both workin’ in the garden — that they had been 
made wi’ tools hid on our premises! 

1 ‘He made all kinds of threats about the penitentiary 
if we didn’t change our minds. ‘Of course,’ he says, ‘I’ll 
send myself there, too, but I’m expectin’ that one o’ these 
days, anyway.’ 

‘ ‘I throwed his trunk out an’ told him to foller it. He 
went, but he held the threat over us, an’ threatened the 
oftener since you’ve been here,” turning to Ellwood. 

1 ‘The last time he come he said he would let things 
stop as they was if we would; but if we let anybody else 
marry — ” 

“Well! Well!” cried the blushing girl with a smile 
across at her parent, ‘ ‘Mr. Ellwood understands now, 
Father.” 

“An’ now God be praised!” fervently exclaimed Gra- 
ham, ‘ ‘it’s done with, aLthough,” he added, ‘ ‘far may it 
be from me to gloat over another’s misfortune.” 

‘ ‘The Lord’s will be done,” murmured Mrs. Graham, 
then, piously: “Vengeance may well be left to Him that 
asks it, Father.” 

Dawn was breaking when Ellwood retired, happy in his 
deliverance from past dangers. He had double cause 
for joy: Blanche had cried herself into sleep, her head 
pillowed on his breast, but the tears were not of sorrow. 

The day following was Sunday — Easter Day. A rep- 
resentative family group of the better class of English- 
speaking miners wended its way to the little church men- 
tioned in the opening of our story. Accompanying them 
— proud in his love for the girl whose arm held his — was 


i7« 


OUR BROTHER’S CHILD, 


Ellwood. At the close of service she was to become his 
bride. 

They had reached the enclosed grounds serving as a 
resting place for the miner dead. Service was already in 
progress, for a miner’s daughter, in common with all 
others of Eve’s kind, must needs be particular in adjust- 
ing bows and ribbons this morning of all others, hence 
the tardiness. And truly bewitching she looked, as, stand- 
ing on the bottom step of several leading to the door, 
Ellwood ’s arm stole around her — simply to adjust a rib- 
bon — and his face bent, to what would appear to a 
disinterested observer, close proximity to her own. 

At last hat and ribbons were each and all in proper 
place. Ellwood pushed open the door for her to enter as 
an organ — hid among a flower-bank — pealed the opening 
notes of 


‘ ‘Alleluia! Alleluia! 

He is risen from the grave.” 



MR. JACKSON’S NIGHT OUT. 


Jackson swung aboard a city-bound car with the agility 
of a school boy. As he reached for his nickel he chuckled 
quietly over his cuteness in out-witting the feminine poten- 
tate of the Jackson domicile. From the innermost recesses 
of a capacious overcoat pocket he brought out the para- 
phernalia that was to serve the purpose of disguise at the 
masquerade. 

‘ ‘I’ll be rather late, Marion,” he told Mrs. Jackson 
before starting. ‘ ‘There’s a stag dance at the club, this 
evening.” 

‘ ‘A stag dance!” she echoed in surprise. 

Mr. Jackson turned from the mirror; ostensibly to wres- 
tle with a collar button, but really to keep his face straight. 

‘ ‘Yes,” he repeated, ‘ ‘the boys are going to have an in- 
formal affair among themselves.” 

After innumerable stops and starts the car reached 
Jackson’s destination. He ran rapidly up the marble 
steps and sought out Dawson-^-the master of ceremonies. 

‘ ‘Hello, old chap,” he greeted. ‘ ‘Introduce me to a 
partner.” 

Dawson had that moment come in from the dressing- 
room. Behind him came several young women — or, 
rather, women who appeared young from their carriage 
and costumes. The master of ceremonies turned to one 
habited as the Queen of Hearts. Dawson chuckled — 
very effusively, Jackson thought, later — as the Sir Knight 
and his partner moved away. 

The orchestra played a prelude, and many beslippered 
feet tapped the waxed floor impatient for the start. The 
chevalier turned to his companion. 

* ‘How many favors for me, did you say?” 


180 OUR BROTHER’S CHILD, 

‘ ‘All, if you wish,” she replied, sweetly. 

Jackson noted, with a thrill of interest, the exquisite 
cadences in her voice, — the delightful charm which had 
won him to Marion, some years before. ‘ ‘How like it! 
especially when she speaks low,” he thought. 

The chevalier’s soliloquy was brief. 

“Our number, did you say, Miss ? May I call 

you Queenie?” he murmured. 

‘ ‘Queenie” bowed her head, blushes chasing each other, 
no doubt, beneath her mask. And how she did waltz! 
Fairly carried away by the impulse of the moment, ap- 
parently. And Jackson? He was intoxicated by the 
manifestations of exquisite grace. Here was the form 
divine, indeed. The filmy, embroidered dress; the old 
lace; the — but why detail? The various parts of her 
make-up were esthetically beautiful. Marion in her 
palmy days was scarcely better. 

“But why,” debated Sir Knight Jackson, “should my 
thoughts continually revert to Marion? Surely a mar- 
ried man can have one night out! Or is the espionage 
of a wife a necessity always?” 

But on these points his mind would persist in not clear- 
ing itself. 

The waltz ended, and he led his fair companion to a seat. 
Sweet, complimental phrases came readily to Jackson’s 
tongue this night. It were years since he had indulged 
in the luxury of ‘ ‘sweet nothings.” What with the exer- 
tion, the music, and the en chan try of his companion, his 
pulses ran unwonted riot. He called her ‘ ‘Queenie,” 
and she, laughing, gave him a name r propos to his costume. 
Slyly, amid the shadows, he placed his arm around her 
waist, thrills chasing each other in quick succession. She 
laughed gently at his audacity, and tapped his arm with 
her fan. Several times he begged the favor of removing 
‘ ‘just for a moment,” the mask concealing her identity, 
but each time met a prompt and firm refusal. His flattery 
went on apace. 


AND OTHER STORIES. 


181 

“You remind me of a deep, pellucid river, in the ex- 
treme gracefulness of your movements, Queenie,” he 
told her, after a waltz. 

“Thank you for the compliment,” she replied, sweetly; 
‘ ‘but ” 

The orchestra burst into a melodious fullness, and the 
dancers sweeping by drowned the rest of the sentence. 

Jackson bent over her. 

‘ ‘But what?” he asked. 

‘ ‘I’ll tell you later,” she answered. 

‘ ‘Why not now?” 

‘ ‘No,” firmly. 

The ball was over. With Dawson they left the room. 
The latter, laughing immoderately, for some unknown 
cause, parted from them at the intersection. This gave 
Jackson the opportunity he had been waiting for. Quick 
to grasp it he slipped his arm through that of his com- 
panion. Meeting no opposition he presumed the field 
clear for further action. He vigorously attempted t® 
remove her mask, which she had not yet removed. Again 
he was frustrated. 

‘ ‘Please don’t,” she exclaimed, ‘ ‘or I shall be compelled 
to — to — scream . ” 

This put a quietus to the knight’s advances for a while. 

Some one has said ‘ ‘A beautiful woman, as a rule, incites, 
in man, the best manners and worst passions,” and Jack- 
son, albeit he knew not as yet whether the manifestations 
of the form divine extended to his companion’s face as 
well as to the portion exposed to view was no exception 
to this rule. 

‘ ‘Come,” she said, turning abruptly, as Jackson made 
an attempt to go into a side street, ‘ ‘this way.” 

The cavalier was flustered. The street she was leading 
him down verged into his own! What if Mrs. Jackson 
should take it into her head to stay up looking for him? 
What, if, by that subtle intuition of woman-kind, she 


182 


OUR BROTHER’S CHILD, 


should recognize him as he passed the corner? He hugged 
closely to* the buildings on the opposite side from where 
he lived, his arm hanging loosely and decorously at his 
side. He looked up at the arc lights and wished all the 
anathemas in his vocabulary on their apparently extreme 
brilliance. 

‘ ‘We must cross over, Sir Knight,” said Queenie, and 
Jackson’s heart nearly failed him. ‘ ‘I go down this street,” 
pointing to the one below whei'e Jackson would turn. 

He felt relieved. 

‘ ‘We part, here,” she murmured. 

‘ ‘Can I not take you all the way?” he asked. 

‘ ‘Thank you,” she replied pleasantly. ‘ ‘I live but a 
few doors down.” 

“But will you not let me see your face?” he pleaded, 
making another ineffectual attempt to remove its covering. 

‘ ‘No, not this evening,” she replied, as positively as 
before. ‘ ‘Perhaps — well — perhaps tomorrow,” she taunted, 
with a ringing, merry, laugh, as she disappeared into the 
darkness. 

The more Jackson pondered on the woman’s last sen- 
tence the more puzzling seemed her behavior. And his 
conscience smote him. Perhaps the nearness of Mrs. 
Jackson’s presence had more to do with this than what he 
had done — or, rather, what he had not done. Each step 
nearer home brought more vividly the realization that he 
had come close to the fire of iniquity. Not of his own 
volition had he escaped the burns which invariably come 
to those who meddle with it. He began to sum up the counts 
against himself. First: Deceiving his wife. Second: Un- 
seemly conduct with an unknown woman. The fore- 
boding of evil was becoming stronger; by the time Jack- 
son hung his overcoat in the hall it was real acute. 

His tranquillity had first been disturbed when his com- 
panion of the ball left him. Fluttering like a snowy bird 
fell from her dress a small handkerchief, which, whether 


AND OTHER STORIES. 


183 

she had disposed of purposely for his edification, or had 
by pure accident become his, he stopped not to consider. 
He stooped for the filmy thing, and placed it with his own. 
By the slumbering Marion’s side he took it out, and glanced 
slyly at the silken embroidery. His gaze fell on the small 
letters in the comer. 

“Thunder and lightning!” he muttered to himself. 
“What a coincidence!” 

Mrs. Jackson turned over; not really to change sides, 
but to stuff a corner of the bed sheet into her mouth. 
******** 

The erstwhile chevalier was up betimes, inasmuch as 
the handkerchief episode had been the cause of mild insom- 
nia. He once again held discourse with himself, as by 
the bedstead side he kicked gently a fluffy rug with be- 
stockinged toes. 

“Appearances certainly point in that direction” he started, 
“but it can hardly be possible the thing was other than 
her own. Perhaps,” he assured himself, “they got mixed 
at the laundry.” 

Marion awoke. 

“Why, Jack, dear, what time did you come in?” she 
asked, pleasantly. 

“Not overly late,” he answered, with assumed grouchi- 
ness that did not take effect. 

Mrs. Jackson rubbed her eyes. 

“Our clock must be taken for repairs, Jack,” she said, 
rougishly. 

“The clock! Why — er — what’s the matter with the 
clock ? ” 

“Because its story and yours don’t agree, dear, and you 
know I wouldn’t disbelieve you.” 

Mrs. Jackson was evidently going to enjoy playing a 
deuce or two before throwing the aces. 

She had commenced to dress. 

“By the way, I lost my handkerchief, Jack; did you see 
anything of it?” 


OUR BROTHER’S CHILD, 


184 

“You! Where?” he exclaimed. 

Astutely she parried this question by asking another. 

“Jack, my love, what’s wrong with you this morning? 
You seem so disturbed. Did you sleep well?” she con- 
cluded in mock seriousness. 

Jackson looked glumpish, and refused to prematurely 
incriminate himself. 

“Sit down,” said Mrs. Jackson, winningly. “I have 
something to tell you about the ‘party’.” 

The Sir Knight of the evening preceding winced, and 
sank into a chair. In spite of his twenty and eight years, 
his athletic proclivities, his natural prerogative as lord 
and master in his own abode, he obeyed as implicitly as 
a child. 

“I have within me all the elements of a fool,” he vouch- 
safed to himself. “You have many more,” — meaning 
the handkerchief, of course — he replied outwardly. 

Marion brushed vigorously at her auburn locks. 

“But that was such a pretty pattern,” said she. “I 
was returning home with a friend, and must have dropped 
it near the comer of Third Street.” 

Mr. Jackson gasped unintentionally, and his counte- 
nance paled. A web of incriminating circumstantial 
evidence was weaving around his actions of “the night 
out,” the reason whereof he could not at the moment ex- 
plain. The partner of his joys and sorrows — the latter 
only in certain cases, as witness the undue proportion 
belonging to himself in this — deliberately fired away. Sev- 
eral times he tried to stem or turn the conversation into 
another channel, but his efforts, like those of the literary 
aspirant, were unavailing. Marion did not share his 
apprehension. Third Street was where he had found 
that troublesome thing. 

“I felt lonely, dear, at the idea of being left alone when 
you went to the stag dance, and happily remembered an 
invitation I received a few days ago. It, too, was a 


AND OTHER STORIES. t§5 

masquerade affair,” she went on, rapidly. “The costumes 
were just too lovely for anything, Jack.” 

“So?” he muttered, looking for a stray button. 

Mrs. Jackson glanced over her husband’s way, slyly. 

“Jack, you don’t seem to be the least bit interested.” 

The erstwhile knight savagely jerked a button into place. 
Still holding the garment in his hands preparatory to 
putting it on he replied: 

“I am very much so; go on.” 

“They gave me the Queen of Hearts,” she continued, 
“and I looked just lovely in the costume, Jack.” 

“Queen of Hearts!” he stammered. 

Marion laughed somewhat grimly at Jackson’s dis- 
comfort. 

“Yes, dear, and I had for a partner a chivalrous Sir 
Knight.” 

“Marion!” he exclaimed. 

“Jack!” she replied, her brown eyes narrowing, but 
looking him squarely in the face. 

“Were you at the ball?” 

“If you choose to call it so.” 

The affair was plain to him^now. 

“Well — how — how — did you — ” he stammered. 

Marion interrupted. 

“Yes, I knew you’d be puzzled. Indeed it was sharp 
work, but the train didn’t make so many stops as the trolley, 
and returning I did not stop to look at anyone’s handker- 
chief on the way from Third Street.” 

Jackson reached into his trousers. 

“Is this yours?” he asked. 

“Oh!” she exclaimed, gleefully, “I am so glad you found 
it.” Then, without pause, went on: “And he was such 
a lovely impersonator of the gallant chevalier. He told 
me I reminded him of a deep, pellucid stream, in the 
gracefulness of my movements.” 

Mr. Jackson was evidently distressed. He knew he was 


1 86 OUR BROTHER'S CHILD, 

in for it, and commenced to cudgel his brain for means to 
squirm out of the mess in the easiest way possible. Ar- 
gument would not do, since the masculine portion of the 
Jacksons invariably came out second best in verbal encoun- 
ters. A brilliant thought struck him. 

“Wasn’t that a beautiful compliment, Jack?” Marion 
concluded. 

Jackson’s frown turned to a smile, for obvious reasons. 

“Perhaps he was jesting, Marion. What did you say 
to the compliment?” 

“I was in the middle of a sentence, demurring, partly, 
from his flattery, when the dancers went past, and — ” 

“And what?” 

“I didn’t finish it.” 

“Why not do so now?” he asked, determinedly. 

“Well — I — do you really want me to?” said she, the 
combative spirit flashing in her dark eyes. 

But while Marion was tremblingly preparing to play 
“a full house,” Jackson was laughing over his own “royal 
flush.” 

“Best hat in town, if you do, sweetheart,” he said, edging 
nearer, he still in his night shirt, and she in her gown. 

The skies cleared instantly. She raised her face to his, 
and he kissed her, drawing her head closer until it nestled 
on his breast. 

“I was about to say, that, unlike the deep, pellucid 
stream, there were rapids as rough as ever tossed within 
a woman’s soul, although you could not see them.” 

He laughed rather unmirthfully. 

“That’s the reason I promised the hat,” he murmured. 

“What reason?” she asked, assuming nescience. 

“Because I knew the rapids were still there. I was on 
the eddys and could plainly see the rocks ahead.” 


THE SUCCESS OF “GOLDEN OIL. 


“Evenin’ Telegram, Mr. Higgins?” 

Mr. Higgins beamed on the lady behind the post-office 
in Jenkinson’s and replied, “No, I think not, this evenin’, 
Mehitable.” 

An uncommonly pleasant look on Miss Mehitable’s 
face had seduced the corpulent huckster from his place 
in the stove circle, his courage screwed — as it had been 
many times during the preceding ten years — to the “poppin’ 
point.” Seclusion, we may here mention, did not enter 
into Mr. Higgins’ calculations. The chief factor in his 
love making was the cast of Miss Mehitable’s countenance, 
or the trend of her disposition. That this was precarious 
and variable was evidenced by the fact that ten years had 
passed and the question remained unsettled. 

Fate also was truly perverse as regarded Mr. Higgins’ 
love affair. He had chosen unseemly moments and in- 
appropriate places “to get the thing settled,” it is true, 
but at other times various incidents for which he was not 
responsible had obtruded themselves at inopportune times. 

This evening it was a crisp, crackling, blue thing tucked 
snugly between the leaves of a letter. 

Mr. Higgins lowered himself by easy stages into the- 
farther chair in the circle and proceeded to leisurely digest 
the contents of a voluminous “personal letter.” 

Silas Hogg raised his six foot two to an upright posi- 
tion, yawned as if sleepy, then stalked over to the thin- 
barred window Higgins had just left. 

“Anythin’ fer me, Miss Mehitable?” he drawled.. 

The postmistress handed out a package identical in 
shape, bulk and general characteristics with the one Hig- 
gins was industriously perusing. 


OUR BROTHER’S CHILD, 


188 

Sefton, he who had been tenant on Braken’s estate for 
so long a time that the countryside looked upon him as 
owner, plied the same question, and in turn received the 
same as his predecessors, accompanied in his case with 
a post card and “The Rural Valley Horn.” 

For some time conversation in the circle lagged. Bob 
Jenkinson came in and took from a draw the mail deposited 
therein, and raising himself to the dry goods counter pro- 
ceeded to open it. He too had received a “personal let- 
ter.” In his however, there were two blue strips, whereas 
his compatriots had received but one each. 

An hour later Miss Mehitable prepared to close the store. 
Higgins rose, ponderously, and re-adjusted his spectacles. 

“Will you please tell Bob I want ter see him, Mehitable,” 
he said. 

“Why didn’t you see him when he was here?” she asked 
tartly. 

Mr. Higgins stammered something about his mind not 
being made up quite, and looked as sheepish as a boy 
about to commit some deviltry of which he feels certain he’ll 
be sorry later on. Fifteen minutes later he was accosted 
by Silas, and the pair in turn by Sefton. 

“I thought you havin’ bin in the hucksterin’ so long,” 
Silas explained, “an’ makin’ so many trips to the city, 
you’d be a likely man t’ ask.” 

Mr. Higgins coughed with importance. 

“It’s a good propper— per— a fust class oppertunity, 
Silas,” he stammered. “I received the same offer myself, 
an’ so did Jenkinson.” 

“Is — that — so?” drawled Sefton. 

“They’ve offered him the vice-president’s place if he’ll 
take so much,” continued the affable Higgins 

“An’ he’s—” 

“Takin’ it up,” concluded Higgins 

“ B’lieve I know this feller ’at’s president of the — the—” 

“Golden Oil Company,” added Higgins. 


AND OTHER STORIES. 189 

“The Golden Oil Company,” repeated Sefton. “He 
used ter clerk up ter Black’s store in Rural Valley.” 

“Thet so?” drawled Silas. 

“Yep. Went out t’oil fields fer his health, didn’t he?” 
asked Higgins. 

“The same feller.” 

“Must a done well ter be president o’ such a company 
a’ready,” dolefully doubted Silas. 

Higgins hawed and hemmed, his broad rotundity shak- 
ing with stress of corpulency and importance. 

“Didn’t yer read the circular?” he asked, turning to 
Silas. 

“No.” 

“I did. He says as how he ventered the few hundred 
dollars he had in a oil well out there, an’ now — ” 

Mr. Higgins stammered and stopped. The letter had 
become eloquent, but abstract in meaning, at this point. 
The printed phrases suggested thought but did not express 
it, leaving conclusions to the reader. And the conclu- 
sions were easily reached; the writer made sure of that. 
He had also stimulated subscription to “Golden Oil” by 
sending free of all charge , pertificates entitling the holder 
thereof to a certain amount of stock — varying in the several 
instances — provided a sufficient amount in addition was 
procured. Out of “respect for his former neighbors of 
Rural Valley,” he also offered directorship and the vice- 
presidency to “the most prominent citizen of that locality;” 
forgetting, in his haste, to add that this was not less than 
the hundredth community from which he anticipated 
recruiting under the banner of “Golden Oil” the same 
number of officers. 

Thus it came about that Mr. Higgins’ egotism became 
more pronounced than ever, as well became “The Hon- 
orable Josiah Higgins, Director of the Golden Oil Com- 
pany,” to whom doubters receiving the second batch of 
circulars were “respectfully referred to,” followed also 


OUR BROTHER’S CHILD, 


190 

by their honorables Messrs. Sefton and Hogg. Heading 
the list, of course, appeared the name of the vice-president, 
our friend Jenkinson. 

As attesting the unstability of the human mind, and the 
contrariness of which it is capable, the latter was an in- 
stance. One would have looked in vain for a shrewder 
man in business affairs affecting the ordinary course of 
his life than Jenkinson. Yet in the glare of this promise 
of exceeding gain his business acumen evaporated, and he 
bit deeper into the succulent fraud than those less wiser. 
He seemed so sanguine of the future that he made an offer 
— contingent on the success of “Golden Oil” — to Shields, 
involving the post-office and store. Silas and Sefton had 
neglected, to an appreciable extent, the Spring plowing, 
“ ’lowing the rains would undo much of it anyway.” Around 
the stove circle in Jenkinson ’s one scarce heard anything 
else but “oil,” and those for whom Fate had reserved less 
of her gold, or given more sense, listened to long stories 
of “strikes” and “gushers,” with a longing desire in their 
own hearts for money, or repressed laughter, as the case 
might be. 

Encouraging reports were received promptly for a few 
weeks. These became less frequent, and finally ceased. 

The vice-president and directors located in Rural Valley, 
in convention assembled, appointed a committee to in- 
vestigate. With much opposition from the senior direc- 
tor — “The Honorable Josiah Higgins,” — who obviously 
desired the post for himself, Bob Jenkinson received 
the appointment and departed on the following day. 

The train deposited Jenkinson at Forest Station — 
“the centre of operations” — so the circular said. Bob 
shook himself and looked around. In the distance the 
latticed top of a solitary derrick peeped from among a 
grove of trees. A few houses were scattered promiscu- 
ously over the landscape; a blacksmith’s shop embellished 
one corner of the cross-roads, a general store the other. 


AND OTHER STORIES. 


191 

Bob turned to a couple of fellows standing by the sta- 
tion window. 

“Can you men direct me to the office of “The Golden 
Oil Company?” he asked. 

They stared at him, bewildered. 

Jenkinson thought perhaps they were foreigners, not yet 
acquainted wth the English language, or perhaps they were 
mutes. 

The station agent was industriously clicking an in- 
strument in the window. Bob turned toward the waiting 
room door. 

“He looks sober, an’ all that,” one of the men remarked 
loud enough for Jenkinson to hear as he passed, “but you 
never can tell; them lunatic fellers act up queer, some- 
times.” 

Bob was grinning yet when the station agent put his 
head to the ticket window. 

“The — Golden — Oil — Company,” he drawled, in an- 
swer to Jenkinson ’s question. 

He lifted his cap and scratched vigorously at the hair 
beneath, a roguish twinkle half closing his eyes. 

“There’s been some fellers drillin’ fer a month past up 
in Graham’s woods,” he Continued, “but as fer the — the 
— what did you say it was?” 

“The Golden Oil Company,” Bob added. Then, 
“Who’s been running the operations?” 

“Well — er — ” drawled the station agent, weak even on 
a point one would have supposed every one in Forest 
familiar with, “a young feller that used to be clerk at 
Black’s store appeared to be bossin’ the job. ’Lowed 
he was workin’ for some company, but he didn’t call it 
what you did.” 

“Where is his office?” 

The agent laughed loudly. 

“His office! Th’ only one I ever seen him in was at 
Black’s; I think he was sweet on Gertie — I mean the 
girl what clerks there!” 


i ^ OUR BROTHER’S CHILD, 

Do you think I would find him there now?” Bob asked. 

“The man laughed again. “It’s hardly likely. He’s 
not been seen around fer two weeks.” 

Jenkinson sighed deeply. 

“Is there any oil — that is did the wells prove good, do 
you know?” 

“There ain’t no wells as I know of,” replied the railroad 
man. “The well up in the woods yonder was a gusher 
(Bob’s face lighted with a broad smile) with water.” 

Jenkinson sighed again. 

“It’s drained every well that was drilled fer water in 
the village since the confounded heavy shootin’ was done 
in it.” 

For a few moments a passing freight stopped conver- 
sation. As the caboose disappeared around a bend in 
the distance the agent remarked savagely: “If we could 
find out what company Hollis was workin’ fer we’d every 
mother’s son sue ’em fer damages. If he’d a stopped we’d 
a wrung it out o’ him, or wrung his neck.” 

Bob turned to go. 

“Have you had any dealin’s with ’em?” the man asked 
abruptly. 

“I was sent to investigate,” Jenkinson replied, evasively. 

He walked slowly up to the store, situated on a knoll 
overlooking the village, and in plain view of “the entire 
field of operations.” Behind the counter a young woman 
was measuring dry goods. 

“Can I serve you?” she smiled. 

In that smile there evaporated all care regarding “Golden 
Oil” investments as well as several years pent-up inflexi- 
bility regarding marriage. Jenkinson had measured femi- 
nine charm by those of Cousin Mehitable, but the illu- 
sion was past. The considerable amount of money which 
was obviously lost seemed as so many pennies; the ap- 
parent result beyond computation. He sighed; fear crept 
in where joy had momentarily reigned supreme: what 
if she were — but no, that couldn’t be? 


AND OTHER STORIES. 


i93 


Jenkinson ordered several articles for which he had no 
immediate use, but it gave opportunity to watch her as 
she moved light-footed hither and thither. No one else 
came in, hence it became imperative that the buying cease. 
He gathered the small heap in front of him. 

“Is there — that is can I secure a meal here?” 

The young woman turned from a shelf on which several 
articles were disarranged. A bright flush of exertion 
colored her cheeks beautifully. A ringlet, one would 
have thought existed only in the days of daguerreotype, 
hung bewitchingly below her temple. 

“I’m sure — I — I — don’t think you can,” she smiled, 
“unless,” and the color deepened, “unless you come with 
me to Mother’s.” 

“Thank you,” Bob replied. Then, “May I stay here 
until then?” 

“Certainly.” 

Jenkinson lighted a cigar and strolled back and forth 
for some time. “Could you tell me,” he started, and 
stopped. 

The interrupter walked to the counter. 

“Please, Miss Gilmore, Mamma wants a can o’ salmon.” 

“Anything else, Susie?”" 

“No.” 

The child went out. 

“Anything of the oil company that has been drilling 
here?” he resumed. 

The girl trembled and clutched at the counter for sup- 
port; her face grew ashen. 

“Excuse me,” Jenkinson hastened, “I did not mean to 
startle you. I was sent here to find out what I could 
about it.” 

The girl eyed him, fearfully, her hands trembled as one 
with the palsy. 

“Are you a detective?” 

Her question and demeanor signified to the most casual 
observer a deep-seated anxiety. 


194 


OUR BROTHER’S CHILD, 


“No, not a detective,” he answered. “I have invested 
some money in it, and so have some of my neighbors.” 

The girl became calmer under his assurance. 

“I am afraid your money is lost,” she sighed. 

Jenkinson toyed with the twine-glass. “I have been led 
to believe so.” 

Then by degrees he learned how Hollis and one other 
were the company. The prospectus had been written 
partly by Miss Gilmore, simply as a matter of amusement. 
She cried as she told how they had read of people being 
fleeced by glowing accounts of non-existent properties; 
how Hollis had bantered her — in merriment as she thought 
— to write a better one than a specimen he himself had 
received through the mail. To her plea that he desist 
from his purpose — of which she received the first intima- 
tion when money orders began to arrive in ever-increasing 
numbers — he held before her her part in the affair, and 
dared her to do anything. 

“Does anyone know what you have told me?” he asked 
her. 

“None but Hollis and yourself.” 

“Then nobody shall know,” he replied, determinedly. 

There are several hundred dollars lying unclaimed,” 
Miss Gilmore concluded. 

“Then the post-office authorities must attend to that,” 
replied Jenkinson, as they went out to dinner. 

“Did your employer know how things were being run 
by Hollis?” 

“As to that I can’t say. Mr. Black and Charlie were 
very intimate, and several nights were closeted in the store 
together after closing time.” 

“Do you think I could see Black?” 

“Not at present. He went away before Hollis; just 
at the time remittances were coming in at the rate of twenty 
to fifty a day. I am afraid the — ” 

They had entered the door of the Gilmore home; by tacit 
consent conversation on the subject ended, 


AND OTHER STORIES. 


i9S 


Black did not return. The day following Jenkinson’s 
advent into the village a sheriff closed the merchandise de- 
partment of the building ; the day following that a post- office 
inspector took charge of the mail. 

********* 

It became current rumor among the Rural Valley mem- 
bers of “Golden Oil” that Jenkinson was returning — 
and a bride. The latter fact threatened to outweigh 
any news — good or ill — that the storekeeper might 
bring. Brides were rare. When it became a certainty 
the entire village, excepting only Mrs. Luff, who was hope- 
lessly paralytic, and Old Man Davis, recluse owing “to 
bein’ drawed in two double with rheumatiz,” turned out 
to greet them. By dint of exaggerated promises as to the 
quantity of candy to be distributed later on the bride and 
groom were allowed to escape to the store, leaving in the 
rear the continuing din of various noise-making instru- 
ments of torture. 

Several hours later an anxious group filled the chairs 
around the stove. Higgins’ chair only was unoccupied. 

“Didn’t hear about it?” said Silas in answer to Jenkin- 
son’s query. “Well, as soon as Miss Mehitable got yer 
dispatch she come from b’fimd the counter an’ whispered 
somethin’ sweet-like into Higgins’ ear. Josiah got up 
immediately, all flustered like, an’ says ter tell yer that 
he had urgent need of a trip to the city. ‘ Miss Mehitable’s 
goin’ with me fer a outin ’, says Higgins, as she locked 
the door behind us all.” 


THE PURPOSES OF GOD. 


‘As judgment dictates, or the scene inspires, 

Each thrills the seat of sense, that sacred source 
Whence the fine nerves direct their mazy course, 

And through the frame invisible convey 
The subtle, quick vibrations as they play; 

Man’s little universe at once o’ercast, 

At once illumined when the cloud is past.” 

Sometimes, when in a retrospective mood, one is led 
almost to believe that the human brain is composed of 
infinitestimal cells, each capable of receiving and impress- 
ing on itself in an indelible manner the scenes, the acts, 
in the drama of which we are all participants. From 
childhood to age the photographic process goes on; each 
day a new negative: each day new scenes. Days there 
are when the impression is hardly perceptible; others 
so deep eternity alone can obliterate. For 

“Who, looking backward from his manhood’s prime, 

Sees not the scepter of his misspent time ? 

And, through the shade of cypress planted thick behind, 
Hears no reproachful whisper on the wind 
From his beloved dead? 

“Who bears no trace of Passion’s evil force? 

Who shuns thy stings, O terrible Remorse? 

Who does not cast 

On the thronged pages of his memory’s book, 

At times, a sad and half-reluctant look, 

Regretful of the past?” 

Sometimes we cannot understand; but doubtless these 
ipdelible photogravures of the mind make the Present 


AND OTHER STORIES. 


197 


debtor to the Past. Our faults and follies thus are ever- 
remindful, and we profit thereby. Were the sequence 
of a deed to fade with the act that gave it being pangs of 
conscience and fear of ill-doing would be less portentous. 
But we cannot erase the past. Thus His purposes work 
ever for our welfare, though oft we know it not. Many 
a wayward soul has been brought to repentance and a 
better life by affliction. Had health continued oppor- 
tunity to commune with God and his better self would not 
have obtruded so persistently into his life; exuberance 
of animal spirit would, perhaps, have o’ershadowed the 
promptings of the deeper and liner sensibilities. He 
is brought by merciful affliction to sense his frailty: “Lord, 
make me to know mine end, and the measure of my day a 

that I may know how frail I am. Behold 

Thou hast made my days as an handbreadth; mine age 
is as nothing before thee; verily every man at his best is 
altogether vanity.” 

When all is well we are too apt to be satisfied; not alone 
with things of this world, but as regards our status with 
God. But Nature knows no continuity, which is well; 
although, when the sky is clear, and as far on the horizon 
of life as we may discern clouds mar not the lustrous serenity, 
we may think otherwise. ‘But, alas, tranquillity is, and 
ever will be, transient. Scenes of illness and parting loom 
like seething clouds; prosperity changes abruptly to ad- 
versity; ties long formed are broken, and at times we seem 
to have floated into a veritable cauldron seething in its 
whirling. Then it is that we thank God for Nature’s 
penchant for changeability; that all these things must 
pass away and an unchanging life be substituted therefor. 

God tosses us about in this cauldron — from which no 
life may be exempt — to make us know Him. He loves 
us^all, as the mother the child she chastises. He leaves 
us^understanding that sorrow, not less than joy, is tran- 
sient, and meanwhile the springs of hope flow freely. We 


198 


OUR BROTHER’S CHILD, 


anticipate; and though, when the changes are rung, each 
in its turn, we do not often see complete materialization 
of our desire, hope for the still further future takes pre- 
cedence. The gloom of the past fades before the rays 
emanating from the vista before us, and we bask in its 
light. This is not utterly foreign to constant sufferers. 
With David they can say: “Yea, though I walk through 
the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; Thy 
rod and Thy staff they comfort me.” They anticipate 
the day when the spirit shall part from its tortured abode. 
No matter what the condition in life — what pain, sorrow, 
or distress — very rarely does the God-given instinct fail; 
“Hope springs eternal in the human breast.” 



THE OWL’S INVITATION. 


(A Poem for Little Folks.) 

The wild goose gave to the blinking owl 
A pen from Nature’s store, 

And an acorn ink-pot filled with ink 
Made where the pokeroot berries drink 
From a pool by the rabbit’s door. 

And this the wise old owl with a quill 
Wrote on some dry, oak leaves : 
“Come, every woodland denizen, 
From hill, from dale, from boggy fen . 
Who this edict receives. 

“The firefly will bring his lamp 
To light our well-filled table; 

The bee the fruit of industry; 

The chipmunk nuts from every tree 
Which bears them, as he’s able. 

“The spider she will bring her loom 
And weave a silken cover, 

From which we’ll drink in acorn shells 
The product of the flower-bells, 

The blossoms and the clover.” 


CHARITY. 


A kind word and a smile are oft better than gold 
To cheer up the heart that with sorrow is weighted, 

For grief often comes to the young and the old — 

To homes full of luxury — with wealth satiated. 

And these are the times when your kindness is needed — 
When sympathy’s welcomed as a warm Winter day; 
When every kind word of counsel is needed 
That will aid the poor traveler o’er his sorrowful way. 



THE TRIUMPH OF RIGHT. 


Might, with its legions, oft transcendency 

O’er a true, righteous cause, may seem to gain; 
But ’tis transient, for eternally 

Right over Wrong its scepter will maintain. 

Right is not Man’s battle, nor yet alone 

Does God leave him defenceless, weak to fight; 
The Trinity on its eternal throne 

Is now and ever on the side of Right. 



COMPLETED DAYS. 


With kindliness the day began, ’twere meet 
For mayhap troublous forms will cross the way, 

And ere the evening comes with strife thoul’t meet, 

But pass it quickly and with good-will greet 
With whom thou com’st in contact through the day. 

And dost not know each day thou stayest here 
Without some good deed done is not complete ? 

Or kind word spoken that may dry a tear ? 

To leave the beaten path thou should’st not fear 
To help a fallen brother to his feet. 



MUSIC. 


Music! What strange and subtle charms are thine; 
What trains of thought thy sounds in passing bring. 
Diverse thy traits: sometimes thoul’t sweetly lull 
The fretful infant into peaceful rest, 

Or fill the warrior’s soul with warring fire. 

To the sensitive mind, melancholy, 

By doleful strain; and to the traveller 

Longing for home. Again, thoul’t fill the step 

Of Youth with rymthic motion like unto 

Thine own well measured tones. What part of Man 

Art thou analogous unto that thou 

Canst sway his passions and his purpose so ? 



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